1  1 


£ 

§  £ 


^rooNv-sov^ 


,\MEUNIVER% 

+-          ^v  ^^> 


1 1 

8     5 


%*»       ^s> 
%fflAINH3VS^ 


^ 


^      ^OFCALIFO/?^        ^\\EUNiVER% 

s  § 

^  ^ 

5i  p 


^  .;>/, 


§A 


THE     MAGNOLIA. 


•  DITBD  BY 

HENRY  W.  HERBERT. 


NEW  YORK: 
ROBERT   P.  BIXBY  &  CO., 

3,  Park  Row,  opposite  Astor  Liu  use. 


Annex 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  MAGNOLIA  is,  at  this  time,  offer 
ed  to  the  public  by  its  proprietor,  not,  it  is  true,  without 
anxiety,  but  at  the  same  time  with  full  confidence, 
that,  as  nothing  has  been  spared,  on  his  part,  to  render 
it  deserving  of  public  favor,  it  will  not  be  found 
altogether  unworthy  or  unacceptable. 

The  plan,  which  he  has  adopted  in  the  present 
volume,  and  which  it  is  his  intention  to  carry  out 
hereafter,  is  perfect  originality  both  of  the  literary  and 
ornamental  departments. 

The  engravings  are,  and  will  continue  to  be,  exe- 
cuted entirely  from  American  paintings,  and  by 
domestic  artists — while  no  compositions,  however 
excellent,  will  be  admitted,  which  are  not  produced  by 
writers,  natives  or  residents  of  the  United  States. 

With  this  brief  introduction,  the  MAGNOLIA  is  com- 
mitted to  that  atmosphere,  which  may  doom  it  to  be 
blighted  by  the  frost  of  the  first  winter ;  but  which 
will,  it  is  hoped,  permit  it  to  bloom  again,  and  with  a 
beauty  more  mature,  than  it  presumes  to  boast  in  this 
its  infant  blossoming. 


2031274 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAOH 

THE  MAGNOLIA 9 

IMPROMPTU 10 

BOYS  ON  THE  ICE 11 

THE  DEATH  OF  SOTO.    By  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  TBS  BROTHERS"  . . .  14 

THE  CONQUEROR— a  Dream 24 

TO  AN  OSTRICH  FEATHER 28 

MUSIC 30 

ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN.    BY  J.  K.  PAUUHNQ,  Es*. 31 

LOGOOCHIE.    BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  "  GUY  RIVBRS,"  "  ATALAMTIS," 

and  "  THE  YEMASSEE" 36 

SONG 71 

THE  YOUNG  MOTHER.    BY  GRENVILLK  MBLLBN,  Esa. 72 

MUERTE  EN  GARROTE  VIL.    BY  THB  AUTHOR  OF  "A  YEAR  IN 

SPAIN" 77 

THE  RESCUE 95 

THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRE.  BY  THB  AUTHOR  OF  "  ATAIAMTIB," 

"THB  YEMASSEB,"  &c 93 

THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE.    BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  "ALLEN  PRBBOOT".  105 

STANZAS   135 

LAKE  GEORGE.    BY  E.  F.  E 136 

DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  8FORZA 138 

AMY  CRANSTOUN.    BY  THB  AUTHOR  OF  "  REDWOOD,"  and  "  HOPS 

145 

r 


r  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

A  SEA  PICTURE.    BY  GRENVH.LB  MBLLKN,  Esa. 177 

THE  HARMONY  OF  NATURE 184 

THE  BRIDE  OF  LAMMERMOOR 187 

DICK  MOON.    BY  WM.  L.  STONE,  Esti. 183 

GREEN'S  POND 214 

PRESENTIMENT.    BY  A.  D.  PATBRSON,  Esft. 217 

KAATSKILL 249 

WASHINGTON 251 

ISOLATED  AFFECTION 258 

A  LIVING  POET 257 

INNOCENZA 259 

A  NIGHT  ON  THE  ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS.     BY  THB  Ao- 

THOR  OF  "A  WINTER  IN  THE  WEST" 261 

THE  STARS 277 

THE  FATE  OF  POMPEY.    BY  THE  AUTHOR  of  "THE  BROTHERS"  .  279 

VIRGINIA 297 

THE  DOOM  OF  THE  EYES 298 

THE  CONDOR.    BrE.F.B....                                                    ..  299 


THE    MAGNOLIA. 


NOT  in  the  autumn  pale  and  cold, 

When  flowers  of  frailer  beauty  fade, — 

When  sombre  hues  the  woods  unfold, 
And  violets  droop  beneath  their  shade — 

Sweet  flower !  thou  bloom' st  in  lonely  grace — 
But  when  at  radiant  summer's  call 

Her  bright  ones  woo  the  wind's  embrace, 
Thou  shinest,  the  loveliest  of  them  all. 

The  wild  rose  rears  its  glowing  head 
Beside  thee,  emulous,  but  in  vain  ; 

Soft  leaves  and  buds  their  odors  shed — 
But  thou  art  sweetest  of  the  train ! 

No  rival  'neath  the  summer  heaven, 
Majestic  flower !  thine  empire  shares  j 

And  thus  the  bard  to  thee  hath  given 
A  deeper  meaning  far  than  theirs. 


0  THE   MAGNOLIA. 

This  volume,  too,  amid  the  throng 
That  shine  with  evanescent  grace, 

In  the  gay  garb  of  smile  and  song — 

Would  claim,  like  thee,  the  brightest  place. 

Yet  wouid  not  droop  like  thee  away, 
When  days  of  light  grow  dark  and  chill ; 

But,  like  the  truth  thy  leaves  display, 
Be  fragrant  and  unfading  still. 


IMPROMPTU. 


TO ,    IN 


For  the  sweet  flower  thou  giv'st  me, 

So  beautiful  and  rare, 
Thou  hast,  fond  maid,  my  friendly  thought, 

Thou  hast  my  fondest  prayer. 

Thou  giv'st  me,  with  thy  pleasant  flower, 
Sweet  words,  that  gently  thrill  | 

I  pray,  'tis  all  that  I  can  do, 

That  thou  may'st  keep  them  still 


BOYS    ON   THE   ICE. 


MOTHER,  where  art  thou  now — fond  mother,  where? 
Busied  perchance  about  the  cottage  hearth;  — 
Or  tending,  with  soft  hand  and  woman  care, 
The  grandsire's  pillow; — or  with  innocent  mirth 
Carolling  old  sweet  melodies  of  home; — 
Shaping  the  while — with  love's  unwearied  skill 
That  waits  not,  wanes  not,  though  the  truants  roam, 
Some  homespun  garb,  to  fence  frore  winter's  chill 
From  those  loved  little  ones — those  sireless  boys  — 
In  whom  is  fixed  thine  all,  of  fears — affections — joys ! 

Mother,  where  art  thou  now — sad  mother,  where? — 
Noontide  hath  chimed  on  every  village  bell — 
A  damper  breath  is  on  the  evening  air, 
Windingthrough woodlands  hoar  itsmournful  shell ; 
The  short-lived  sun  hath  neared  the  western  hill — 
Yet  hath  no  sound  appeased  thine  anxious  ear, 
Of  frolic  shout — or  childish  laughter  shrill  — 
Or  prattling  tongues,  unfathomably  dear! — 
No  joyous  yelping,  by  his  playmates'  side, 
Of  him,  at  night  their  guard — their  friend  by  day 
and  guide ! 


12  BOYS   ON    THE   ICE. 

Mother,  where  art  thou  now — dear  mother,  where? 
There  is  a  voice  beside  the  frozen  shore — 
A  voice,  would  bid  thy  widow-heart  despair — 
A  voice  which  heard — thou  would'st  hear  never 

more — 
NOT  see,    nor  hope,    nor  pray! — No  —  not  for 

heaven ! — 

A  cry  for  succor — "Succor,  or  we  perish 
O'er  the  blind  waters  to  destruction  driven!  — " 
Blest  that  thou   see'st  them  not — that    so   dost 

cherish  — 

The  frail  ice  drifting  to  the  ocean  wide, 
Their  frail,  yet  sole  support,  upon  the  wheeling  tide!  — 

Mother,  where  art  thou  —  hapless  mother,  where? 
Thy  babes  are  pleading  to  the  earless  deep 
For  mercy!  — mercy  from  the  waves,  that  ne'er, 
Save  once,  heard  voice  of  man,  and  sank  to  sleep !  — 
And  there  is  no  help!  —  none  I — and  they  must 

fall  — 

So  bright,  so  innocent,  and  oh  so  brief.  — 
And  thou — thou  must  survive  thy  last — thine  all; 
Survive  —  in  solitary  hopeless  grief. — 
Better  it  were  —  oh  better  far — to  share 
Their  fate — thou  so  dost  love — for  whom  thou  so 
didst  bear! 

Hope  mother  yet  —  unconscious  mother,  hope! 
HE,  who  bade  hush  the  roar  on  Galilee, 
And  walked  the  waters,  that  their  crests  did  slope 
Tame  at  his  word  and  powerless — may  not  HE, 


BOYS   ON   THE   ICE.  13 

Or  doth  he  lack  the  will  again  to  save?  — 
Pure  vows  are  soaring  to  the  throne  of  might — 
High  hearts,  strong  hands,  are  battling  with  the 

wave  — 

And  the  bark  rushes,  swifter  than  the  flight 
Of  Indian  arrow,  gurgling  through  the  spray, 
That  chides,  but  may  not  check,  her  fleet  and  fearless 

way. 

Bliss,  mother,  now — grateful  mother,  bliss  I 
Thy  babes  are  sheltered  in  thy  wild  embrace — 
Earth  has  no  moment  that  may  vie  with  this — 
The  eye,  devouring  each  familiar  face, — 
The  straining  arms — the  fierce  and  hurried  kiss — 
The  brief  pure  blessing — the  reproachful  zeal — 
The  penitence  for  mother's  care  remiss — 
The  rapturous  anguish  none  but  mothers  feel ! 
Oh — who  shall  say  that  life  has  aught  below 
Of  tears  unmixed  with  smiles,  or  joy  undimmed  by  wol 


THE    DEATH   OF   SOTO, 


BT  THE   AUTHOR  OP   "  THB   BROTHERS/ 


But  wind  me  in  a  banner  bright— 

A  banner  of  Castile  — 
And  let  the  war-drums  round  me  roll, 

The  trumpets  o'er  me  peal ! — 
And  bury  me  at  noon  of  night, 

When  gone  is  the  sultry  gleam  — 
At  noon  of  night  —  by  torches'  light — 

In  the  Mississippi  stream. 

Old  Ballad. 


IT  was  the  evening  of  a  sultry  day,  sultry  almost 
beyond  endurance,  although  the  season  had  not 
advanced  beyond  the  early  spring-time;  the  sun, 
though  shrouded  from  human  eyes  by  a  dense  veil  of 
moist  and  clammy  vapor,  was  pouring  down  a  flood 
of  intolerable  heat  upon  the  pathless  cane-brakes,  the 
deep  bayous,  haunts  of  the  voracious  and  unseemly 
alligator,  and  the  forests,  steaming  with  excess  of 
vegetation,  through  which  the  endless  river  rolled 
its  dark  current.  On  a  steep  bluff^  projecting  into 
the  bosom  of  the  waters,  at  the  confluence  of  some 
nameless  tributary  and  the  vast  Mississippi,  stood  the 
dwelling  of  the  first  white  man  that  ever  trod  those 
boundless  solitudes.  —  It  was  a  rude  and  shapeless 


THE  DEATH  OP   SOTO.  15 

edifice  of  logs,  hewn  from  the  cypresses  and  cedars 
of  the  swamp,  which  lay  outstretched  for  a  thousand 
miles  around,  by  hands  unused  to  aught  of  base  or 
menial  labor ;  —  yet  were  there  certain  marks  of 
comfort,  and  even  of  luxury,  to  be  traced  in  the 
decorations  and  appliances  of  that  log-cabin ;  a  veil 
of  sea-green  silk  was  drawn  across  the  aperture, 
which  perforated  the  massy  timbers  of  the  wall ;  a 
heavy  drapery  of  crimson  velvet,  decked  with  a  fringe 
and  embroidery  of  gold,  was  looped  up  to  the  low 
lintels,  as  if  to  admit  whatever  breath  of  air  might 
sweep  alonsj  the  channel  of  the  river.  Nor  were 
these  all  —  a  lofty  staff  was  pitched  before  the  door, 
from  which  drooped,  in  gorgeous  folds,  the  yellow 
banner,  rich  with  the  castled  blazonry  of  Spain ;  and 
beside  it  a  tall  warrior  —  sheathed  from  head  to  heel 
in  burnished  armor,  with  gilded  spur,  and  belted 
brand  —  stalked  to  and  fro,  as  though  he  were  on 
duty  upon  some  tented  plain,  in  his  own  land  of 
chivalry  and  song.  At  a  short  distance  in  the.  rear 
might  be  observed  a  camp,  if  by  that  name  might  be 
designated  a  confused  assemblage  of  huts,  suited  for 
the  accommodation  of  five  hundred  men;  horses  were 
picqueted  around ;  spears,  decked  with  pennon  and 
pennoncel  and  all  the  bravery  of  knightly  warfare, 
were  planted  before  the  dwellings  of  their  owners ; 
sentinels  in  gleaming  mail  paced  their  accustomed 
rounds.  But  in  that  strange  encampment,  there  was 
no  mirth,  no  bustle  —  not  even  the  low  hum  of  con- 
verse, or  the  note  of  preparation.  —  The  soldiers  glided 
to  and  fro,  with  humbled  gait  and  sad  demeanor ;  the 


16  THE   DEATH   OF   SOTO. 

very  chargers  drooped  their  proud  heads  to  the 
ground,  and  appeared  to  lack  sufficient  animation  to 
dash  aside  the  swarms  of  venomous  flies,  that  battened, 
as  it  seemed,  upon  their  very  life-blood ;  the  huge  blood- 
hounds, those  dread  auxiliaries  of  Spanish  warfare, 
of  which  a  score  or  two  were  visible  among  the 
cabins,  lay  slumbering  in  listless  indolence,  or  drag- 
ged themselves  along,  after  the  heels  of  their  masters, 
with  slouching  crests,  and  in  attitudes  widely  different 
from  the  fierce  activity  of  their  usual  motions.  Pesti- 
lence and  famine  were  around  them — on  the  thick 
and  breezeless  air — on  the  dark  wafers — in  the 
deep  morass,  and  in  the  vaults  of  the  pine  forest, 
the  seeds  of  death  were  floating — avengers  of  the 
luckless  tribes,  already  scattered  or  enslaved  by  the 
iron  arm  of  European  war.  Oh  —  how  did  they 
pine  for  the  clear  streams  of  Guadalquivir,  or  the 
viny  banks  of  Xeres — for  the  breezy  slopes  of  the 
Alpuxarras,  or  the  snow-clad  summits  of  their  native 
Sierras — those  fated  followers  of  the  DEMON  GOLD 
How  did  their  recollections  doat  upon  the  waving 
palms,  and  orange-groves,  the  huertas  and  the  meads 
of  fair  Granada !  In  vain  —  in  vain  !  —  Of  all  those 
gallant  hundreds,  who  had  leaped  in  confidence  and 
hope  from  their  proud  brigantines  upon  the  glowing 
shores  of  Florida,  glittering  in  polished  steel,  and 
"very gallant  with  silk  upon  silk,"*  who  had  travers- 
ed the  wild  country  of  the  Appalachians,  who  had 
seen  the  gleam  of  Spanish  arms  reflected  from  the 

*  Bancroft's  History  of  the  United  States,  vol.  i.  p.  48. 


THE  DEATH   OP   SOTO.  17 

black  streams  of  Alabama,  who  had  made  the  bound- 
less prairies  of  Missouri  ring  with  the  unechoed 
notes  of  the  Castilian  trumpet,  who  had  spread  the 
terrors  of  the  Spanish  name,  with  all  its  barbarous 
accompaniments  of  havoc  and  slaughter,  through 
wilds  untrod  before  by  feet  of  civilized  man.  —  Of  all 
those  gallants  hundreds,  but  a  weak  and  wasted 
moiety  was  destined  to  reach  the  shores  of  their  far 
fatherland  j  and  that  — not,  as  they  had  fondly  deem- 
ed, in  the  pride,  the  exultation,  and  the  wealth  of 
conquest,  but  in  want,  and  weariness,  and  wo. 

The  arrows  of  the  savage,  and  the  yet  fiercer 
arrows  of  the  plague,  dearly  repaid  the  injuries  that 
they  had  wreaked  already  on  the  wretched  natives  — 
dearly  repaid  too,  as  it  were  by  anticipation,  the 
wrongs  that  their  children,  and  their  children's  chil- 
dren, should  wreak  in  long  prospective  on  the  forest- 
dwellers  of  the  west. 

There,  in  that  lonely  hut — there  lay  the  proudest 
spirit — the  bravest  heart  —  the  mightiest  intellect — 
the  favorite  comrade  of  Pizarro  —  the  joint-conqueror 
of  Perul  —  There  lay  Hernan  de  Soto  —  his  fiery 
energies,  even  more  than  the  hot  fever,  wearing  away 
his  mortal  frame;  his  massive  brow  clogged  with  the 
black  sweat  of  death ;  his  eye  —  that  had  flashed  the 
more  brilliantly  the  deadlier  was  the  peril  —  dim  and 
filmy;  his  high  heart  sick  —  sick  and  fearful,  not  for 
himself,  but  for  his  followers ;  his  hopes  of  conquest, 
fame,  dominion,  gone  like  the  leaves  of  autumn! 
There  he  lay,  miserably  perishing  by  inches,  the 


THE   DEATH   OF   SOT.O. 

discoverer  of  a  world  —  a  world,  never  destined  to 
bless  or  him  or  his  posterity  with  its  redundant  riches. 

Beside  his  pallet-bed  was  assembled  a  group  of 
men,  the  least  renowned  of  whom  might  well  have 
led  a  royal  army  to  do  battle  for  a  crown  —  but  their 
frames  were  gaunt  and  emaciated ;  their  cheeks  fur- 
rowed with  the  lines  of  care  and  agony,  both  of  the 
mind  and  body;  their  eyes  wet  with  the  tears  of 
bitterness.  The  dark-cowled  priests  had  ministered 
the  last  rites  ~of  religion  to  the  dying  warrior,  and 
now  watched  in  breathless  silence  the  parting  of  his 
spirit; — an  Indian  maiden,  of  rare  symmetry,  and 
loveliness  that  would  have  been  deemed  exquisite  in 
the  brightest  halls  of  Old  Castile,  leaned  over  his 
pillow,  wiping  the  cold  dew  from  the  conqueror's 
brow  with  her  long  jetty  locks,  and  fanning  off  the 
myriads  of  voracious  insects,  that  thronged  the  tainted 
air !  —  There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  crowded  cham- 
ber, save  the  heavy  sob-like  breathings  of  the  dying 
man,  and  the  occasional  winnings  of  a  tall  hound,  the 
noblest  of  his  race,  which  sat  erect,  gazing  with 
almost  human  intelligence  upon  the  pallid  features  of 
his  lord. 

Suddenly  a  light  draught  of  air  was  perceptible — 
the  silken  veil  fluttered  inwards,  and  a  heavy  rustling 
sound  was  audible  from  without,  as  the  huge  folds  of 
the  banner  swayed  in  the  rising  breeze.  A  sensible 
coolness  pervaded  the  heated  chamber,  and  reached 
the  languid  brow  of  De  Soto,  who  had  lain  for  the  last 
half  hour  in  seeming  lethargy.  Wearily,  and  with 


THE  DEATII   OF   SOTO.  19 

a  painful  expression,  he  raised  himself  upon  his 
elbow. 

"Moscoso" —  he  said, — "  Moscoso,  art  thou  near 
me — my  eyes  wax  dim,  and  it  will  soon  be  over?  — 
Art  there,  for  I  would  speak  with  thee?"  — 

"  Noble  de  Soto,  I  am  beside  thee"  — he  replied — 
"  Say  on  —  I  hear  and  mark  thee  1"  — 

"Give  me  thy  hand!" — then,  as  he  received  it, 
he  raised  it  slowly  on  high,  and  continued  in  clear 
and  unfaltering  tones,  though  evidently  with  an 
effort  — "  True  friend  and  follower,  by  this  right 
hand,  that  has  so  often  fought  beside  my  own  —  by 
this  right  hand,  I  do  adjure  thee,  to  observe  and  to 
obey  these  my  last  mandates !"  — 

"Shall  I  swear  it?" — cried  the  stern  warrior, 
whom  he  addressed,  in  a  tone  and  voice  rendered  thick 
and  husky  by  the  violence  of  his  excitement — "  shall 
I  swear  it  ?"  — 

"  Swear  not,  Moscoso !  —  leave  oaths  to  paltry 
burghers  and  to  cringing  vassals — but  pledge  me 
the  unblemished  honor  of  a  Castilian  noble  —  so 
shall  I  die  in  peace !"  — 

"By  the  unblemished  honor  of  a  Castilian  noble — 
as  I  am  a  born  hidalgo,  and  a  belted  knight,  I  pro- 
mise thee,  in  spirit  and  in  truth — in  deed,  and  word, 
and  thought,  to  do  thy  bidding  I"  — 

"  Then,  by  this  token,"  —  and  he  drew  a  massive 
ring  from  his  own  wasted  hand,  and  placed  it  on  the 
finger  of  Moscoso  —  "  then,  by  this  token,  do  I  name 
thee  my  successor  —  thee,  the  leader  of  the  host,  and 
captain-general  of  Spain !  Sound  trumpets —  heralds 


20  THE   DEATH   OF   SOTO. 

make  proclamation!"  A  moment  or  two  elapsed, 
and  the  wild  flourish  of  the  trumpets  was  heard  with- 
out, and  the  sonorous  voice  of  the  heralds  making 
proclamation  —  they  ceased — but  there  was  no  shout 
of  triumph  or  applause. 

"  Ha,  by  St.  Jago !"  —  cried  the  dying  chief —  "Ha! 
by  St.  Jago  — but  this  must  not  be  —  'tis  ominous  and 
evil!  —  Go  forth,  thou,  Vasco — and  bid  them  sound 
again,  and  let  my  people  shout  for  this  their  loyal 
leader." 

It  was  done,  and  a  gleam  of  triumphant  satisfaction 
shot  across  his  hollow  features.  He  spoke  again,  but 
it  was  with  a  feebler  voice  — 

"  I  am  going"  —  he  said  —  "  I  am  going,  whence 
there  is  no  return! — Now,  mark  me  —  by  your 
plighted  word  I  do  command  you  —  battle  no  farther 
—  strive  with  the  fates  no  farther  —  for  the  fates  are 
adverse  i  — •  Conquer  not  thou  this  region  —  for  I 
have  conquered  it  —  and  it  is  mine!  Mine,  mine  — 
though  dying !  —  Mine  it  shall  be  though  dead !  — 
March  to  the  coast  as  best  ye  may — build  ye  such 
vessels  as  may  bear  ye  from  the  main,  and  save 
this  remnant  of  my  people !  —  Wilt  thou  do  this  — 
as  thou  hast  pledged  thyself  to  do  it,  noble  Moscoso  ?" 

**  By  all  my  hopes,  I  will !" 

"  Me,  then,  me  shall  ye  bury  thus  !  —  Not  with 
lamentations  —  not  with  womanish  tears  —  not  with 
vile  sorrow — but  with  the  rejoicing  anthem  —  with 
the  blare  of  the  trumpet,  and  the  stormy  music  of  the 
drum !  —  Ye  shall  sheath  me  in  my  mail  —  with  my 
helmet  on  my  head  and  my  spur  on  my  heel !  — 


THE   DEATH   OP  SOTO.  21 

with  my  sword  in  my  hand  shall  ye  bury  me  —  and 
with  a  banner  of  Castile  for  my  shroud !  —  In  the 
depths  of  the  river  —  of  my  river  —  shall  ye  bury  me ! 
with  lighted  torch  and  volleyed  musketry  at  the  mid 
hour  of  night !  For  am  I  not  a  conqueror  —  a  con- 
queror of  a  world  —  a  conqueror  with  none  to  brave 
my  arm,  or  to  gainsay  my  bidding?  Where  — 
where  is  the  man,  savage  or  civilized  —  Christian  or 
heathen  —  Indian  or  Spaniard  —  who  hath  defied 
Hernan  de  Soto,  and  not  perished  from  the  earth  ?  — 
Death  is  upon  me — death  from  the  Lord  of  earth 
and  heaven !  — To  him  I  do  submit  me — but  to  mor- 
tal never !" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  a  warder  entered  the  low  door- 
way, and  whispered  a  brief  message  to  Moscoso. 
Slight  as  were  the  sounds,  and  dim  as  waxed  the 
senses  of  De  Soto,  he  marked  the  entrance  of  the 
soldier,  and  eagerly  inquired  the  purport  of  the  news! 

"A  messenger"  —  was  the  reply — "an  Indian 
runner  —  from  the  Natchez!" 

"Admit  him — he  bears  submission — admit  him, 
so  shall  I  die  with  triumph  in  my  heart!" 

The  Indian  entered  —  a  man  of  stern  features,  and 
of  well-nigh  giant  stature. —  His  head,  shaven  to  the 
chivalrous  scalp-lock,  was  decked  with  the  plumes  of 
the  war-eagle,  mingled  with  the  feathers  of  a  gayer 
hue — his  throat  was  circled  by  a  necklace,  strung 
from  the  claws  of  the  grizzly  bear  and  cougar,  fearfully 
mixed  with  tufts  of  human  hair  —  his  lineaments 
were  covered  with  the  black  war-paint  —  in  one 
hand  he  bore  the  crimson  war-pipe,  and  in  the  other 


22  THE  DEATH   OF   SOTO. 

the  well-known  emblem  of  Indian  hostility,  a  bundle 
of  shafts  bound  in  the  skin  of  the  rattlesnake!  — With 
a  noiseless  step  he  crossed  the  chamber,  he  flung  the 
deadly  gift  upon  the  death-bed  of  De  Soto  —  he  raised 
the  red  pipe  to  his  lips  —  he  puffed  the  smoke  —  and 
then,  in  wild  accents  of  his  native  tongue,  bore  to 
the  Spaniards  the  defiance  of  his  tribe,  concluding  his 
speech  with  the  oft  heard  and  unforgotten  cadences 
of  the  war-whoop !  — 

As  the  dying  leader  caught  the  raised  tone  of  the 
Indian's  words — his  eye  had  lightened,  and  his  brow 
contracted  into  a  writhing  frown !  He  knew  the 
import  of  his  speech,  by  the  modulations  of  his  voice — 
his  lip  quivered  —  his  chest  heaved  —  his  hands 
clutched  the  thin  coverlid,  as  though  they  were  grap- 
pling to  the  lance  or  rapier.  The  wild  notes  of  the 
war-whoop  rang  through  his  ears  —  and  in  death — 
in  death  itself,  the  ruling  passion  was  prevalent  — 
manifestly,  terribly  prevalent ! 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  —  his  form  dilating,  and  his 
features  flashing  with  all  the  energy  of  life  —  "St. 
Jago"  —  he  shouted  —  "  for  Spain !  —  for  Spain !  — . 
Soto  and  victory!"  —  and  with  an  impotent  effort  to 
strike,  he  fell  flat  upon  his  face  at  the  feet  of  the 
Indian,  who  had  provoked  his  dying  indignation  !  — 

They  raised  him  —  but  a  flood  of  gore  had  gushed 
from  eyes,  mouth,  ears  —  he  had  burst  some  one  of 
the  larger  vessels  —  and  was  already  lifeless,  ere  he 
struck  the  ground !  — 

The  sun  had  even  now  sunk  below  the  horizon  — 
and,  ere  the  preparations  for  his  funeral  had  been 


THE   DEATH   OF   SOTO.  23 

completed,  it  was  already  midnight.  Five  hundred 
torches  of  the  resinous  pine  tree  flashed  with  their 
crimson  reflections  on  the  turbid  water,  as  the  barks 
glided  over  its  surface,  bearing  the  warrior  to  his  last 
home. 

A  train  of  cowled  priests,  with  pix  and  crucifix 
and  steaming  censer,  floated  in  the  van,  making  the 
vaulted  woods  to  echo  the  high  notes  of  the  Te  Deum, 
chanted  in  lieu  of  the  mournful  Miserere  over  the 
mortal  part  of  that  ill-fated  warrior. 

But  as  the  canoe  came  onward  in  which  the  corpse 
was  placed — seated  erect,  as  he  had  ordered  it,  with 
the  good  sword  in  the  dead  hand,  the  polished  helmet 
glancing  above  the  sunken  features,  and  the  gay  ban- 
ner of  Castile  floating  like  a  mantle  from  the  shoulders 
—  the  pealing  notes  of  the  trumpet,  and  the  roll  of  the 
battle-drum,  and  the  Spanish  war-cry  —  "  St.  Jago  for 
De  Soto  and  for  Spain" — and  the  crash  of  the  volley- 
ing  arquebuses  might  be  heard,  startling  the  wild 
beasts,  and  the  wilder  Indians,  of  the  forest,  for  leagues 
around. 

There  was  a  pause  —  a  deep,  deep  pause — a  sullen 
splash  —  and  every  torch  was  instantly  extinguished. 
— "  The  discoverer  of  the  Mississippi  slept  beneath 
its  waters.  He  had  crossed  a  large  part  of  the  conti- 
nent in  search  of  gold,  and  found  nothing  so  remarka- 
ble as  his  burial  place."  —  * 

*  Bancroft's  History.— Portuguese  Region. 


THE    CONQUEROR. 

A  DREAM. 


I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  power  to  sweep 
Adown  the  gulf  of  time. 

CAMPBELL. 


METHOUGHT  I  stood  near  to  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
Above  my  head  towered  those  amethystine  ramparts, 
which  had  laughed  to  scorn,  ages  before  the  birth  of 
time,  the  menaces  of  Lucifer  and  his  rebellious  crew! 
Before  me,  within  the  open  portals,  was  a  flood  of 
glory  —  a  sea  of  brilliant,  everlasting,  spirit-dazzling 
lustre,  and  amid  the  empyrean  were  angelic  shapes, 
winged  and  beautiful,  y«H  magnificent  withal,  and 
fearful.  And  I  heard  a  voice,  as  of  ten  thousand 
silver  trumpets,  cry — "  Place  for  the  Conqueror!"  — 

And  there  was  a  stir  among  the  multitudes,  that 
crowded  the  vast  area  before  the  gates — for  myriads 
of  shadowy  forms  stood  there,  waiting  the  fiat  of  their 
destiny, — men — old,  and  in  the  prime  of  power,  and 
in  the  golden  flush  of  youth, —  matrons,  and  maids, 
and  infants, — some  pale  and  conscience-stricken, 
cringing  like  hounds  beneath  the  lash,  —  others 
serenely  joyous,  calm  in  the  chastened  ecstasy  of 
hope,  that  doubteth  not  nor  feareth. 


THE    CONQUEROR.  25 

And  a  shape  stood  forward  at  the  summons;  — 
a  shape,  proud,  and  majestic,  and  most  rich  in  all 
those  attributes,  that  bow  men  down  before  their 
fellow  mortals.  On  his  brow  there  was  the  likeness 
of  an  imperial  crown,  woven  with  leaves  of  the  green 
bay  tree — his  eye,  bold  as  the  eagle's,  seemed  to 
gaze  around  in  the  vain  hope  to  find  a  rival — his  lip 
was  wreathed  with  an  exulting  smile.  But  on  the 
brow,  beneath  the  crown,  were  furrows — deep  blight- 
ed furrows,  dug  by  the  burning  ploughshare  of  the 
passions  ;  and  on  the  green  leaflets  were  broad  gouts 
of  blood ;  and  in  the  eagle  eye  there  was  a  glance  of 
restlessness  and  of  distrust,  of  aspirations  never  to  be 
realized,  of  ambition  unquenched,  unquenchable ;  and 
on  the  smiling  lip,  there  was  a  curl  of  melancholy 
scorn,  and  at  times  a  quiver,  as  of  inward  agony. 

And  he  answered,  with  tones  deep  as  the  lion's 
roar  when  the  deserts  are  hushed  in  terror — "  Lo,  I 
am  here!"  — 

And  the  voice  cried  again,  from  within  the  gates — 
"Truly  thou  art  a  conqueror — thou  man  of  blood, 
thou  reaper  of  the  harvest  of  death,  thou  scourge  of 
thine  ill-fated  race, — truly  thou  art  a  conqueror,  and 
for  thee  is  there  a  place  made  ready — but  not  here!' 

And  the  shape  vanished,  but  I  saw  not  how,  noi 
whither — and  there  was  silence.  And  again  the 
voice  cried — "  Place  for  the  Conqueror!"  — 

And  a  shape  stood  forward  at  the  summons; — but 
most  unlike  the  former.  —  The  countenance,  though 
high  and  noble,  was  emaciate,  and  pale,  and  mourn- 
ful; and  the  locks,  although  unmixed  with  gray, 


26  THE  CONQUEROR. 

were  thin  and  scattered ;  and  the  frame  was  bent,  and 
the  limbs  feeble.  Yet  on  those  mournful  features 
there  played  a  smile  of  more  than  earthly  sweetness ; 
and  in  the  eye,  the  full  dark  eye,  was  a  wild  glance, 
now  melting  into  the  liquid  depths  of  tenderness,  now 
flashing  with  ineffable  fire — and  the  gaze  of  that  dark 
eye  was  upward — still  upward!  —  For  the  laurel 
crown  btneath  his  feet  was  withered,  and  the  sweet 
strings  of  the  lyre  in  his  hand  were  "jangled,  out  of 
tune,  and  harsh,"  and  the  jeer  and  the  scoff  and  the 
envy  of  the  cold  world  were  in  his  ears,  and  in  his 
soul' — And  with  a  high  yet  melancholy  smile,  as 
though  he  knew  of  his  own  worth,  yet  doubted  its 
reception,  he  said  likewise — "Lo,  I  am  here!" — 

And  again  the  voice  was  heard,  crying  —  "  Truly, 
thou  also  art  a  conqueror!  —  The  conqueror  of  time 
and  place — the  ruler  of  the  young  fresh  heart — the 
soother  of  want  and  weariness  and  wo — the  lord  of 
language  and  of  love — the  conqueror  of  the  soul, 
even  as  he  was  conqueror  of  the  body !  Truly,  thou 
art  a  conqueror,  and  for  thee  also  there  "is  a  place 
made  ready — a  place  here — among,  though  not 
itself,  the  highest!"  — 

And  the  shape  vanished,  but  I  saw  not  how,  or 
whither — and  there  was  silence.  And  again  the  voice 
cried  —  "  Place  for  the  Conqueror  !"  — 

And  a  shape  stood  forward  at  the  summons ;  —  a 
shape,  not  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  men,  nor 
gorgeous  with  the  trappings  of  rank,  nor  rich  with 
the  endowments  of  genius.  —  But  over  the  homely 
form,  and  over  the  humble  features,  there  was  a  glow 


THE   CONQUEROR.  27 

of  pure  and  pious  radiance — and  beneath  the  feet  of 
the  shape  lay  wealth  immeasurable — crowns  of  dig- 
nity, and  scrolls  of  fame — rejected,  though  not 
disdained — and  the  homage  of  men,  and  the  love  of 
women — doubted,  but  not  despised! — and  around 
him,  there  were  slaves  with  their  fetters  broken,  now 
slaves  no  longer,  with  uplifted  arms,  and  voices — 
and  widows  calling  on  him  to  behold  the  orphans  he 
had  rescued — and  men  won  from  the  vainness,  and 
the  wilfulness  of  their  own  imaginations — and  nations 
blessing  the  benefactor  of  the  poor,  the  enemy  of  the 
oppressor,  and  the  friend  of  the  most  High ! 

And  the  humble  shape  stood  forward — confident, 
as  it  seemed,  and  fearless — and  the  lips  moved — 
perchance  in  prayer,  for  no  words  went  forth,  nor  any 
answer  to  the  summons. 

And  again,  from  within  the  portals,  the  voice 
cried — "Truly  thou  art  the  conqueror — thou  holy 
one!  The  conqueror  of  fear  and  falsehood — of  sin 
and  despair! — The  conqueror  of  the  passions — of 
the  world — and  of  thyself!  Stand  forth! — Stand 
forth,  thou  conqueror !  —  For  thee  is  the  place  made 
ready — highest  and  nearest  to  mine  own  —  enter, 
thou  conqueror." 

And  amidst  the  greetings  of  the  angelic  hosts, 
sweeping  from  immeasurable  distance,  a  cataract  oi 
living  harmony  —  and  amid  the  mingled  melody  of 
harps  and  halleluiahs,  that  shape  passed  through  the 
everlasting  portals.  —  And  as  he  passed,  I  woke,  and 
lo,  it  was  a  dream!  H. 


TO    AN    OSTRICH    FEATHER, 


IN  A  LADY'S  HEAD  DRESS.' 


FRAILEST  and  fairest  of  the  things  of  earth, — 

Moved  by  each  breezy  wing  that  fans  the  depth 

Of  the  blue  vault — yea!  sullied  by  a  touch, 

That  had  not  soiled  the  pure  and  virgin  snow  — 

What  or  whence  art  thou  —  so  to  be  advanced 

Pre-eminently — so  to  kiss  the  cheek, 

Bask  in  the  smile,  and  revel  on  the  lip, 

Of  one,  to  whose  least  pleasure  kings  might  bow, 

Casting  their  coronals,  and  palmiest  state, 

Before  her  feet,  most  happy  so  to  win 

One  favoring  glance  of  those  immortal  eyes, 

Fraught  with  the  hue,  the  light,  the  love  of  heaven? — 

Child  of  the  lone  and  solitary  wastes 
Of  red  Sahara,  by  the  desert  ship 
Cast  as  a  tribute  to  the  hot  simoom, 
That  fills  her  surgy  vans,  what  time  elate 
She  lifts  herself  on  high,  and  scorns  the  might 
Of  steed  and  rider !  —  The  one  living  thing, 
That  loveth  not  her  young,  nor  folds  them  close 
Beneath  her  wing,  nor  guards  them  with  her  life!  — 

*  See  Frontispiece— The  White  Plume. 


TO  AN    OSTRICH   FEATHER.  29 

The  giant  bird  —  to  which  God  gave  nor  sense, 
Nor  natural  instinct,  to  preserve  her  race !  — 

Oh !  hadst  thou  speech  —  what  scenes  'twere  thine 

to  tell, 

Of  steeds  Arabian,  and  of  scorching  sands 
Watered  with  innocent  gore,  when  thou  perchance 
Didst  deck  the  swarthy  robber's  turbaned  brow, 
Waving  from  far,  the  signal  of  despair, 
To  the  worn  pilgrim,  fainting  in  the  sun ! — 
And  thence  of  argosy,  or  caravel, 
And  ocean  marvels,  which  thou  didst  survey  — 
Beyond  the  straits  Herculean,  and  the  isles 
Once  titled  of  the  blest  —  stemming  the  surge 
Of  mightier  seas  than  lave  thy  parent  shore ;  — 
Where  erst  broad  Atalantis,  with  her  crown 
Of  palmy  forests,  and  savannahs  green, 
And  mountains  bathing  their  snow-circled  heads 
In  the  mid  azure,  courted  the  rent  sail 
Of  storm-tossed  mariner  —  submerged  now, 
And  lost  in  gulphing  waves,  that  thence  did  win 
Its  name  Atlantic  for  the  western  main ! 

Thrice  happy  thou,  to  fall  on  latter  days. 
And   shores    Columbian  —  thou  that  mightst   have 

shone, 

In  the  dark  centuries  of  the  middle  time, 
A  thing  of  slaughter,  on  the  steely  crest 
Of  Prince  or  Paladin  —  a  standard-plume, 
And  rallying  point,  above  the  dust  and  din, 
The  hellish  uproar,  and  the  trumpet's  yell ! 


More  glorious  now,  and  happier  far,  to  float 
In  the  rich  atmosphere  of  beauty's  breath  — 
A  thing  of  love  —  a  cynosure  of  hearts  — 
A  fleecy  cloud,  veiling,  but  shadowing  not, 
A  starry  constellation  of  twin  eyes, 
Brightest  and  best  of  all  the  lights  in  heaven ! 


MUSIC 


TENDER,  and  soft,  and  slow, 

The  solemn  numbers  flow, 
Like  the  low  cadence  of  the  tranquil  sea ; 

My  spirit  feels  her  own 

Each  simple  moving  tone, 
More  dear  than  aught  of  strange  sublimity ! 

Oh !  if,  in  yonder  sky, 

The  breast's  glad  melody 
Finds  utterance  in  music  such  as  ours, 

May  not  the  once  loved  strain 

There  breathe,  at  times,  again, 
Bringing  sweet  memories  of  vanish' d  hours?  — 

SlGNORINA. 


ODE    TO    JAMESTOWN. 


BY  3.   K.   PAUL  DING. 


OLD  cradle  of  an  infant  world, 
In  which  a  nestling  empire  lay, 
Struggling  awhile,  'ere  she  unfurl' d, 
Her  gallant  wing  and  soar'd  away, 
All  hail !  thou  birthplace  of  the  glowing  west, 
Thou  seem'st  the  towering  eagle's  ruin'd  nest! 

What  solemn  recollections  throng, 

What  touching  visions  rise, 

As  wand' ring  these  old  stones  among, 

t  backward  turn  mine  eyes, 
And  see  the  shadows  of  the  dead  flit  round, 
Like  spirits,  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall  sound. 

The  wonders  of  an  age  combin'd 
In  one  short  moment  memory  supplies, 
They  throng  upon  my  waken' d  mind, 
As  time's  dark  curtains  rise. 
The  volume  of  a  hundred  buried  years, 
Co^.dens'd  in  one  bright  sheet,  appears. 


82  ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN. 

I  hear  the  angry  ocean  rave, 

I  see  the  lonely  little  barque 

Scudding  along  the  crested  wave, 

Freighted  like  old  Noah's  ark, 
As  o'er  the  drowned  earth  it  whirl' d, 
With  the  forefathers  of  another  world. 

I  see  a  train  of  exiles  stand. 

Amid  the  desert,  desolate, 

The  fathers  of  my  native  land, 

The  daring  pioneers  of  fate, 
Who  brav'd  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  earth, 
And  gave  a  boundless  empire  birth. 

I  see  the  gloomy  Indian  range 

His  woodland  empire,  free  as  air ; 

I  see  the  gloomy  forest  change, 

The  shadowy  earth  laid  bare, 
And,  where  the  red  man  chas'd  the  bounding  deer, 
The  smiling  labours  of  the  white  appear. 

I  see  the  haughty  warrior  gaze 

In  wonder  or  in  scorn, 

As  the  pale  faces  sweat  to  raise 

Their  scanty  fields  of  corn, 
While  he,  the  monarch  of  the  boundless  wood, 
By  sport,  or  hairbrain'd  rapine,  wins  his  food. 

A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  gone  ; 

The  red  men  are  no  more ; 

The  pale  fac'd  strangers  stand  alone 

Upon  the  river's  shore ; 

And  the  proud  wood  king,  who  their  arts  disdain' d, 
Finds  but  a  bloody  grave,  where  once  he  reign' d. 


ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN. 

The  forest  reels  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  sturdy  woodman's  axe; 

Ths  earth  receives  the  white  man's  yoke, 

And  pays  her  willing  tax 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  golden  harvest  fields, 
And  all  that  nature  to  blithe  labour  yields. 

Then  growing  hamlets  rear  their  heads, 

And  gathering  crowds  expand, 

Far  as  my  fancy's  vision  spreads, 

O'er  many  a  boundless  land, 
Till  what  was  once  a  world  of  savage  strife, 
Teems  with  the  richest  gifts  of  social  life. 

Empire  to  empire  swift  succeeds, 

Each  happy,  great,  and  free ; 

One  empire  still  another  breeds, 

A  giant  progeny, 

To  war  upon  the  pigmy  gods  of  earth, 
The  tyrants,  to  whom  ignorance  gave  birth. 

Then,  as  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  trace 
The  fount  whence  these  rich  waters  sprung, 
I  glance  towards  this  lonely  place, 
And  find  it,  these  rude  stones  among. 
Here  rest  the  sires  of  millions,  sleeping  sound, 
The  Argonauts,  the  golden  fleece  that  found. 

Their  names  have  been  forgotten  long ; 

The  stone,  but  not  a  word,  remains ; 

They  cannot  live  in  deathless  song, 

Nor  breathe  in  pious  strains. 
Yet  this  sublime  obscurity,  to  me 
More  touching  is,  than  poet's  rhapsody. 


34  ODE  TO   JAMES  TOWN. 

They  live  in  millions  that  now  breathe ; 
They  live  in  millions  yet  unborn, 
And  pious  gratitude  shall  wreathe 
As  bright  a  crown  as  e'er  was  worn, 
And  hang  it  on  the  green  leav'd  bough, 
That  whispers  to  the  nameless  dead  below. 

No  one  that  inspiration  drinks ; 

No  one  that  loves  his  native  land ; 

No  one  that  reasons,  feels,  or  thinks, 

Can  'mid  these  lonely  ruins  stand, 
Without  a  moisten'd  eye,  a  grateful  tear, 
Of  reverent  gratitude  to  those  that  moulder  here. 

The  mighty  shade  now  hovers  round — 
Of  HIM  whose  strange,  yet  bright  career, 
Is  written  on  this  sacred  ground, 
In  letters  that  no  time  shall  sere; 
Who  in  the  old  world  smote  the  turban'd  crew, 
And  founded  Christian  Empires  in  the  new. 

And  SHE  !  the  glorious  Indian  maid, 
The  tutelary  of  this  land, 
The  angel  of  the  woodland  shade, 
The  miracle  of  God's  own  hand, 
Who  join'd  man's  heart,  to  woman's  softest  grace, 
And  thrice  redeem'd  the  scourgers  of  her  race. 

Sister  of  charity  and  love, 
Whose  life  blood  was  soft  Pity's  tide, 
Dear  Goddess  of  the  Sylvan  grove. 
Flower  of  the  Forest,  nature's  pride, 
He  is  no  man  who  does  not  bend  the  knee, 
And  she  no  woman  who  is  not  like  thee ! 


ODE    TO    JAMESTOWN.  3 

Jamestown,  and  Plymouth's  hallow'd  rock, 

To  me  shall  ever  sacred  be — 

1  care  not  who  my  themes  may  mock, 

Or  sneer  at  them  and  me. 
I  envy  not  the  brute  who  here  can  stand, 
Without  a  prayer  for  his  own  native  land. 

And  if  the  recreant  crawl  her  eartii, 

Or  breathe  Virginia's  air, 

Or,  in  New  England  claim  nis  birth, 

From  the  old  Pilgrim's  there, 
He  is  a  bastard,  if  he  dare  to  mock, 
Old  Jamestown's  shrine,  or  Plymouth's  famous  rock. 


LOGOOCHIE; 

OB, 

THE    BRANCH    OP    SWEET    WATER. 

A.  LEGEND  OF  GEORGLV. 

BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  OH1  RIVERS^  ATALANTIl',  AND  THB  YBMAPBBB 


These  woods  have  all  been  haunted,  and  the  i>ower 
Of  spirits  still  abides  in  tree  and  flower ; 
They  have  their  tiny  elves  that  dance  by  night, 
When  the  leaves  sparkle  in  the  moonbeam's  liglu; 
And  the  wild  Indian  often,  as  he  flew 
Along  their  water  in  his  birch  canoe, 
Beheld,  in  the  soft  light  of  summer  eves, 
Strange  eyes  and  faces  peering  through  the  leaves ; 
Nor,  are  they  vanish'd  yet. — The  woodman  sees. 
Even  now,  wild  forms  that  lurk  behind  the  trees; 
And  the  pine  forests  have  a  chanted  song, 
The  Indians  say,  must  linger  in  them  long. 


WITH  the  approach  of  the  white  settlers  along  the 
wild  but  pleasant  banks  of  the  St.  Mary's  river,  in 
the  state  of  Georgia,  the  startled  deities  of  Indian 
mythology  began  to  meditate  their  departure  to 
forests  more  secure.  Tribe  after  tribe  of  the  abori- 
gines had  already  gone,  and  the  uncouth  gods  of 
their  idolatry,  presided,  in  numberless  instances,  only 
over  their  deserted  habitations.  The  savages  had  car- 
ried with  them  no  guardian  divinities — no  hallowed 


LOGOOCUIE.  37 

household  altars — cheering  them,  in  their  new  places 
of  abode,  by  the  acceptance  of  their  sacrifice,  and 
with  the  promise  of  a  moderate  winter,  or  a  successful 
hunt.  In  depriving  them  of  the  lands  descended  to 
them  in  trust  from  their  fathers,  the  whites  seemed 
also  to  have  exiled  them  from  the  sweet  and  mystic 
influences,  so  aptly  associated  with  the  vague  loveli- 
ness of  forest  life,  of  their  many  twilight  superstitions. 
Their  new  groves,  as  yet,  had  no  spells  for  the  hunts- 
man ;  and  the  Manneyto  of  their  ancient  sires  failed  to 
appreciate  their  tribute  offerings,  intended  to  propitiate 
his  regards,  or  to  disarm  his  anger.  They  were 
indeed  outcasts;  and,  with  a  due  feeling  for  their  exiled 
worshippers,  the  forest-gods  themselves  determined  also 
to  depart  from  those  long-hallowed  sheltering  places 
in  the  thick  swamps  of  the  Okephanokee,  whence, 
from  immemorial  time,  they  had  gone  forth,  to  cheer 
or  to  chide  the  tawny  hunter  in  his  progress  through 
life.  They  had  served  the  fathers  faithfully,  nor  were 
they  satisfied  that  the  sons  should  go  forth  unattended. 
They  had  consecrated  his  dwellings,  they  had  stimu- 
lated his  courage,  they  had  thrown  the  pleasant  waters 
along  his  path,  when  his  legs  failed  him  in  the  chase, 
and  his  lips  were  parched  with  the  wanderings  of  the 
long  day  in  summer;  and  though  themselves  overcome 
in  the  advent  of  superior  gods,  they  had,  nevertheless, 
prompted  him  to  the  last,  in  the  protracted  struggle 
which  he  had  maintained,  for  so  many  years,  and 
with  such  various  successes,  against  his  pale  invaders. 
All  that  could  be  done  for  the  feather-crowned  and 
wolf-mantled  warrior,  had  been  done,  by  the  divinities 


38  LOGOOCHIE. 

he  worshipped.  He  was  overcome,  driven  away  from 
his  ancient  haunts,  but  he  still  bowed  in  spirit  to  the 
altars,  holy  still  to  him,  though,  haplessly,  without 
adequate  power  to  secure  him  in  his  possessions. 
They  determined  not  to  leave  him  unprotected  in  his 
new  abodes,  and  gathering,  at  the  bidding  of  Satilla, 
the  Mercury  of  the  southern  Indians,  the  thousand 
gods  of  their  worship — the  wood-gods  and  the  water- 
gods — crowded  to  the  flower-island  of  Okephanokee, 
to  hear  the  commands  of  the  Great  Manneyto. 

II. 

All  came  but  Logoochie,  and  where  was  he?  he, 
the  Indian  mischief-maker  —  the  Puck,  the  tricksiest 
spirit  of  them  all,  —  he,  whose  mind,  like  his  body, 
a  creature  of  distortion,  was  yet  gentle  in  its  wildness, 
and  never  suffered  the  smallest  malice  to  mingle  in 
with  its  mischief.  The  assembly  was  dull  without 
him  —  the  season  cheerless  —  the  feast  wanting  in 
provocative.  The  Great  Manneyto  himself,  with 
whom  Logoochie  was  a  favourite,  looked  impatiently 
on  the  approach  of  every  new  comer.  In  vain  were 
all  his  inquiries  —  where  is  Logoochie?  who  has 
seen  Logoochie?  The  question  remained  unan- 
swered—  the  Great  Manneyto  unsatisfied.  Anxious 
search  was  instituted  in  every  direction  for  the 
discovery  of  the  truant.  They  could  hear  nothing  of 
him,  and  all  scrutiny  proved  fruitless.  They  knew 
his  vagrant  spirit,  and  felt  confident  he  was  gone  upon 
some  mission  of  mischief;  but  they  also  knew  how 
far  beyond  any  capacity  of  their' s  to  detect,  was  his 


LOGOOCIIIE.  39 

to  conceal  himself,  and  so,  after  the  first  attempt  at 
search,  the  labour  was  given  up  in  despair.  They 
could  get  no  tidings  of  Logoochie. 

III. 

The  conference  went  on  without  him,  much  to  the 
dissatisfaction  of  all  parties.  He  was  the  spice  of 
the  entertainment,  the  spirit  of  all  frolic;  and  though 
sometimes  exceedingly  annoying,  even  to  the  Great 
Manneyto,  and  scarcely  less  so  to  the  rival  power  of 
evil,  the  Opitchi-Manneyto,  yet,  as  the  recognized 
joker  on  all  hands,  no  one  found  it  wise  to  take  offence 
at  his  tricks.  In  council,  he  relieved  the  dull  discourse 
of  some  drowsy  god,  by  the  sly  sarcasm,  which, 
falling  innocuously  upon  the  ears  of  the  victim,  was 
yet  readily  comprehended  and  applied  by  all  the  rest. 
On  the  journey,  he  kept  all  around  him  from  any 
sense  of  weariness,  —  and,  by  the  perpetual  practical 
application  of  his  humour,  always  furnished  his 
companions,  whether  above  or  inferior  to  him  in 
dignity,  with  something  prime,  upon  which  to  make 
merry.  In  short,  there  was  no  god  like  Logoochie, 
and  he  was  as  much  beloved  by  the  deities,  as  he 
was  honoured  by  the  Indian,  who  implored  him  not 
to  turn  aside  the  arrow  which  he "  sent  after  the 
bounding  buck,  nor  to  spill  the  water  out  of  his 
scooped  leaf  as  he  carried  it  from  the  running  rivulet 
up  to  his  mouth.  All  these  were  tricks  of  the  playful 
Logoochie,  and  by  a  thousand,  such  as  these,  was  he 
known  to  the  Indians. 


40  LOGOOCHIE. 

IV. 

Where,  then,  was  the  absentee  when  his  hrother 
divinities  started  after  the  outlawed  tribes?  Had  he 
not  loved  the  Indians  —  had  he  no  sympathy  with  his 
associate  gods  —  and  wherefore  went  he  not  upon  the 
sad  journey  through  the  many  swamps  and  the  long 
stretches  of  sand  and  forest,  that  lay  between  the 
Okephanokee,  and  the  rapidly-rushing  waters  of  the 
Chatahoochie,  where  both  the  aborigines  and  their 
rude  deities  had  now  taken  up  their  abode.  Alas ! 
for  Logoochie!  He  loved  the  wild  people,  it  is  true, 
and  much  he  delighted  in  the  association  of  those 
having  kindred  offices  with  himself;  but,  though  a 
mimic  and  a  jester,  fond  of  sportive  tricks,  and 
perpetually  practising  them  on  all  around  him,  he 
was  not  unlike  the  memorable  buffoon  of  Paris,  who, 
while  ministering  to  the  amusement  of  thousands, 
possessing  them  with  an  infinity  of  fun  and  frolic, 
was  yet,  at  the  very  time,  craving  a  precious  mineral 
from  the  man  of  science  to  cure  him  of  his  confirmed 
hypochondria.  Such  was  the  condition  of  Logoochie. 
The  idea  of  leaving  the  old  woods  and  the  waters  to 
which  he  had  been  so  long  accustomed,  and  which 
were  associated  in  his  memory  with  a  thousand 
instances  of  merriment,  was  too  much  for  his  most 
elastic  spirits  to  sustain ;  and  the  summons  to  depart 
filled  him  with  a  nameless,  and,  to  him,  a  hitherto 
unknown  form  of  terror.  His  organ  of  inhabitive- 
ness  had  undergone  prodigious  increase,  in  the  many 
exercises  which  his  mind  and  mood  had  practised 
upon  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Branch  of  Sweet 


LOGOOCHIE.  41 

Water,  where  his  favourite  home  had  been  chosen  by 
a  felicitous  fancy.  It  was  indeed  a  spot  to  be  loved 
and  dwelt  upon,  and  he,  who  surveyed  its  clear  and 
quiet  waters,  sweeping  pleasantly  onward,  with  a 
gentle  murmur,  under  the  high  and  bending  pine 
trees  that  arched  over  and  fenced  it  in,  would  have 
no  wonder  at  its  effect  upon  a  spirit  so  susceptible, 
amidst  all  his  frolic,  as  that  of  Logoochie.  The  order 
to  depart  made  him  miserable;  he  could  not  think  of 
doing  so ;  and,  trembling  all  the  while,  he  yet  made 
the  solemn  determination  not  to  obey  the  command; 
but  rather  to  subject  himself,  by  his  refusal,  to  a  loss 
of  caste,  and,  perhaps,  even  severer  punishment,  should 
he  be  taken,  from  the  other  powers  having  guardian- 
ship with  himself  over  the  wandering  red  men. 
With  the  determination  came  the  execution  of  his 
will.  He  secreted  himself  from  those  who  sought 
him,  and  in  the  hollow  of  a  log  lay  secure,  even 
while  the  hunters  uttered  their  conjectures  and 
surmises  under  the  very  copse  in  which  he  was 
hidden.  His  arts  to  escape  were  manifold,  and,  unless 
the  parties  in  search  of  him  knew  intimately  his 
practices,  he  could  easily  elude  their  scrutiny  by  the 
simplest  contrivances.  Such,  too,  was  the  suscepti- 
bility of  his  figure  for  distortion,  that  even  Satilla,  the 
three-eyed,  the  messenger  of  the  Indian  divinities, 
the  most  acute  and  cunning  among  them,  was  not 
unfrequently  overreached  and  evaded  by  the  truant 
Logoochie.  He  too  had  searched  for  him  in  vain, 
though  having  a  shrewd  suspicion,  as  he  stepped  over 
a  pine  knot  lying  across  a  branch,  just  about  dusk, 


42  LOGOOCHIE. 

that  it  was  something  more  than  it  seemed  to  be,  yet 
passing  on  without  examining  it,  and  leaving  the 
breathless  Logoochie,  for  it  was  he,  to  gather  himself 
up,  the  moment  his  pursuer  was  out  of  sight,  and  take 
himself  off  in  a  more  secluded  direction.  The  back 
of  Logoochie  was,  of  itself,  little  better  than  a  stripe 
of  the  tree-bark,  to  those  who  remarked  it  casually. 
From  his  heel  to  his  head,  inclusive,  it  looked  like  so 
many  articulated  folds  or  scales  of  the  pine  tree,  here 
and  there  bulging  out  into  excrescences.  The  back 
of  his  head  was  a  solid  knot,  for  all  the  world  like 
that  of  the  scorched  pine  knot,  hard  and  resinous. 
This  knot  ran  across  in  front,  so  as  to  arch  above  and 
overhang  his  forehead,  and  was  crowned  with  hair 
that,  though  soft,  was  thick  and  woody  to  the  eye, 
and  looked  not  unlike  the  plates  of  the  pine-bur  when 
green  in  season.  It  rose  into  a  ridge  or  comb  directly 
across  the  head  from  front  to  rear,  like  the  war  tuft 
of  a  Seminole  warrior.  His  eyes,  small  and  red, 
seemed,  occasionally,  to  run  into  one  another,  and 
twinkled  so,  that  you  could  not  avoid  laughing  but  to 
look  upon  them.  His  nose  was  flat,  and  the  mouth 
was  simply  an  incision  across  his  face,  reaching  nigh 
to  both  his  ears,  which  lapped  and  hung  over  like 
those  of  a  hound.  He  was  short  in  person,  thick, 
and  strangely  bow-legged ;  and,  to  complete  the 
uncouth  figure,  his  arms,  shooting  out  from  under  a 
high  knot,  that  gathered  like  an  epaulette  upon  each 
shoulder,  possessed  but  a  single  though  rather  long 
bone,  and  terminated  in  a  thick,  squab,  bur-like  hand, 
having  fingers,  themselves  inflexible  and  but  of  single 


LOGOOCH1E.  43 

joints,  and  tipped,  not  with  nails,  but  with  claws, 
somewhat  like  those  of  the  panther,  and  equally 
fearful  in  strife.  Such  was  the  vague  general  out- 
line which,  now  and  then,  the  Indian  hunter,  and, 
after  him,  the  Georgia  squatter,  caught,  towards 
evening,  of  the  wandering  Logoochie,  as  he  stole 
suddenly  from  sight  into  the  sheltering  Copse,  that 
ran  along  the  edges  of  some  wide  savannah. 

The  brother  divinities  of  the  Creek  warriors  had 
gone  after  their  tribes,  and  Logoochie  alone  remained 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Sweet  Water  Branch.  He 
remained  in  spite  of  many  reasons  for  departure. 
The  white  borderer  came  nigher  and  nigher,  with 
every  succeeding  day.  The  stout  log-house  started 
up  in  the  centre  of  his  favourite  groves,  and  many 
families,  clustering  within  a  few  miles  of  his  favourite 
stream,  formed  the  nucleus  of  the  flourishing  little 
town  of  St.  Mary's.  Still  he  lingered,  though  with 
a  sadness  of  spirit,  hourly  increasing,  as  every  hour 
tended  more  and  more  to  circumscribe  the  haunts  of 
his  playful  wandering.  Every  day  called  upon  him 
to  deplore  the  overthrow,  by  the  woodman's  axe,  of 
some  well-remembered  tree  in  his  neighbourhood ; 
and  though  he  strove,  by  an  industrious  repetition  of 
his  old  tricks,  to  prevent  much  of  this  desolation, 
yet  the  divinities  which  the  white  man  brought  with 
him  were  too  potent  for  Logoochie.  In  vain  did  he 
gnaw  by  night  the  sharp  edge  of  the  biting  steel, 
with  which  the  squatter  wrought  so  much  desolation. 
Alas !  the  white  man  had  an  art  given  him  by  his 
God,  by  which  he  smoothed  out  the  repeated  gaps, 


44  LOGOOCHIE. 

and  sharpened  it  readily  again,  or  found  a  new  one, 
for  the  destruction  of  the  forest.  Over  and  over 
again  did  Logoochie  think  to  take  the  trail  of  his 
people,  and  leave  a  spot  in  which  a  petty  strife  of 
this  nature  had  become,  though  a  familiar,  a  painful 
practice ;  but  then,  as  he  thought  of  the  humiliating 
acknowledgment  which,  by  so  doing,  he  must  offer 
to  his  brother  gods,  his  pride  came  to  his  aid,  and 
he  determined  to  remain  where  he  was.  Then  again 
as"  he  rambled  along  the  sweet  waters  of  the  branch, 
and  talked  pleasantly  with  the  trees,  his  old  acquaint- 
ance, and  looked  down  upon  little  groups  of  Indians 
that  occasionally  came  to  visit  this  or  that  tumulus 
of  the  buried  nations,  he  felt  a  sweet  pleasure  in 
the  thought,  that  though  all  had  gone  of  the  old 
possessors,  and  a  new  people  and  new  gods  had  come 
to  sway  the  lands  of  his  outlawed  race,  he  still 
should  linger  and  watch  over,  with  a  sacred  regard, 
the  few  relics,  and  the  speechless  trophies,  which  the 
forgotten  time  had  left  them.  He  determined  to 
remain  still,  as  he  long  had  been,  the  presiding 
genius  of  the  place. 

VI. 

From  habit,  at  length,  it  came  to  Logoochie  to 
serve,  with  kind  offices,  the  white  settlers,  just  as  he 
had  served  the  red  men  before  him.  He  soon  saw 
that  in  many  respects  the  people  dwelling  in  the 
woods,  however  different  their  colour  and  origen, 
must  necessarily  resemble  one  another.  They  were 
in  some  particulars  equally  wild  and  equally  simple. 


LOGOOCHIE.  46 

He  soon  discovered  too,  that,  however  much  they 
might  profess  indifference  to  the  superstitions  of  the 
barbarous  race  they  had  superseded,  they  were  not  a 
whit  more  secure  from  the  occasional  tremors  which 
followed  his  own  practices  or  presence.  More  than 
once  had  he  marked  the  fright  of  the  young  wood- 
man, as,  looking  towards  nightfall  over  his  left 
shoulder,  he  had  beheld  the  funny  twinkling  eyes, 
and  the  long  slit  mouth,  receding  suddenly  into  the 
bush  behind  him.  This  assured  Logoochie  of  the 
possession  still,  even  with  a  new  people,  of  some  of 
that  power  which  he  had  exercised  upon  the  old; 
and  when  he  saw,  too,  that  the  character  of  the  white 
man  was  plain,  gentle,  and  unobtrusive,  he  came, 
after  a  brief  study,  to  like  him  also ;  though,  certainly, 
in  less  degree,  than  his  Indian  predecessors.  From 
one  step  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  new  comers,  to 
another,  Logoochie  at  length  began  to  visit,  at  stolen 
periods,  and  to  prowl  around  the  little  cottage,  of  the 
squatter ; — sometimes  playing  tricks  upon  his  house- 
hold, but  more  frequently  employing  himself  in  the 
analysis  of  pursuits,  and  of  a  character,  as  new  almost 
to  him  as  to  the  people  whose  places  they  had 
assumed.  Nor  will  this  seeming  ignorance,  on  the 
part  of  Logoochie,  subtract  a  single  jot  from  his  high 
pretension  as  an  Indian  god;  since  true  philosophy 
and  a  deliberate  reason,  must  long  since  have  been 
aware,  that  the  mythological  rule  of  every  people, 
has  been  adapted,  by  the  superior  of  all,  to  their 
mental  and  physical  condition ;  and  the  Great  Man- 
neyto  of  the  savage,  in  his  primitive  state,  was, 


46  I.OGOOCHIE. 

doubtless,  as  wise  a  provision  for  him  then,  as,  in 
our  time,  has  been  the  faith,  which  we  proudly 
assume  to  be  the  close  correlative  of  the  highest  point 
of  moral  liberty  and  social  refinement. 

VII. 

In  this  way,  making  new  discoveries  daily,  and 
gradually  becoming  known  himself,  though  vaguely, 
to  the  simple  cottagers  around  him,  he  continued  to 
pass  the  time  with  something  more  of  satisfaction 
than  before;  though  still  suffering  pain  at  every 
stroke  of  the  sharp  and  smiting  axe,  as  it  called  up 
the  deploring  echoes  of  the  rapidly  yielding  forest. 
Day  and  night  he  was  busy,  and  he  resumed,  in 
extenso,  many  of  the  playful  humours,  which  used  to 
annoy  the  savages,  and  compel  their  homage.  It  is 
true,  the  acknowledgment  of  the  white  man  was 
essentially  different  from  that  commonly  made  by  the 
Indians.  When  their  camp-pots  were  broken,  their 
hatchets  blunted,  their  bows  and  arrows  warped,  or 
they  had  suffered  any  other  such  mischief  at  his 
hands,  they  solemnly  deprecated  his  wrath,  and 
offered  him  tribute  to  disarm  his  hostility.  All  that 
Logoochie  could  extort  from  the  borderer,  was  a 
sullen  oath,  in  which  the  tricksy  spirit  was  identified 
with  no  less  a  person  than  the  devil,  the  Opitchi- 
Manneyto  of  the  southern  tribes.  This  —  as  Logoo- 
chie well  knew  the  superior  rank  of  that  personage 
with  his  people — he  esteemed  a  compliment;  and  its 
utterance  was  at  all  times  sufficiently  grateful  in  his 
ears  to  neutralize  his  spleen  at  the  moment.  In 


LOGOOCHIE.  47 

addition  to  this,  the  habit  of  smoking  more  frequently 
and  freely  than  the  Indians,  so  common  to  the  white 
man,  contributed  wonderfully  to  commend  him  to  the 
favour  of  Logoochie.  The  odor  in  his  nostrils  was 
savory  in  the  extreme,  and  he  consequently  regarded 
the  smoker  as  tendering  in  this  way,  the  deprecatory 
sacrifice,  precisely  as  the  savages  had  done  before 
him.  So  grateful,  indeed,  was  the  oblation  to  his 
taste,  that  often,  of  the  long  summer  evening,  would 
he  gather  himself  into  a  bunch,  in  the  thick  branches 
of  the  high  tree  overhanging  the  log-house,  to  inhale 
the  reeking  fumes  that  were  sent  up  by  the  half 
oblivious  woodman,  as  he  lay  reposing  under  its 
grateful  shadow. 

•VIII. 

There  was  one  of  these  little  cottages,  which,  for 
this  very  reason,  Logoochie  found  great  delight  in 
visiting.  It  was  tenanted  by  a  sturdy  old  farmer, 
named  Jones,  and  situated  on  the  skirts  of  St.  Mary's 
village,  about  three  miles  from  the  Branch  of  Sweet 
Water,  the  favorite  haunt  of  Logoochie.  Jones  had 
a  small  family  —  consisting,  besides  himself,  of  his 
wife,  his  sister — a  lady  of  certain  age,  and  monstrous 
demure  —  and  a  daughter,  Mary  Jones,  as  sweet  a 
May-flower,  as  the  eye  of  a  good  taste  would  ever 
wish  to  dwell  upon.  She  was  young — only  sixteen, 
and  had  not  yet  learned  a  single  one  of  the  thousand 
arts,  which,  in  making  a  fine  coquette,  spoil  usually 
a  fine  woman.  She  thought  purely,  and  freely  said 
all  that  she  thought.  Hor  old  father  loved  her — her 


48  LOGOOCHIE. 

mother  loved  her,  and  her  aunt,  she  loved  her  too, 
and  proved  it,  by  doing  her  own,  and  the  scolding 
of  all  the  rest,  whenever  the  light-hearted  Mary  said 
more  in  her  eyes,  or  speech,  than  her  aunt's  conven- 
tional sense  of  propriety  deemed  absolutely  necessary 
to  be  said.  This  family,  Logoochie  rather  loved, — 
whether  it  was  because  farmer  Jones  did  more  smok- 
ing than  any  of  the  neighbours,  or  his  sister  more 
scolding,  or  his  wife  more  sleeping,  or  his  daughter 
more  loving,  we  say  not,  but  such  certainly  was  the 
fact.  Mary  Jones  had  learned  this  latter  art,  if  none 
other.  A  tall  and  graceful  lad  in  the  settlement, 
named  Johnson,  had  found  favour  in  her  sight,  and 
she  in  his ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  made  the 
mutual  discovery.  He  was  a  fine  youth,  and  quite 
worthy  of  the  maiden ;  but  then  he  was  of  an  inquir- 
ing, roving  temper,  and  though  not  yet  arrived  at 
manhood,  frequently  indulged  in  rambles,  rather 
startling,  even  to  a  people  whose  habit  in  that  respect 
is  somewhat  proverbial.  He  had  gone  in  his  wander- 
ings even  into  the  heart  of  the  Okephanokee  Swamp, 
and  strange  were  the  wonders,  and  wild  the  stories, 
which  he  gave  of  that  region  of  Indian  fable — a 
region,  about  which  they  have  as  many  and  as  beau- 
tiful traditions,  as  any  people  can  furnish  from  the 
store  house  of  its  primitive  romance.  This  disposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  Ned  Johnson,  though  productive  of 
much  disquiet  to  his  friends  and  family,  they  hoped 
to  overcome  or  restrain,  by  the  proposed  union  with 
Mary  Jones — a  connexion  seemingly  acceptable  to 
all  parties.  Mary,  like  most  other  good  young  ladies. 


LOGOOCHIE.  49 

had  no  doubt,  indeed,  of  her  power  to  control  her 
lover  in  his  wanderings,  when  once  they  were  man 
and  wife ;  and  he,  like  most  good  young  gentlemen 
in  like  cases,  did  not  scruple  to  swear  a  thousand 
times,  that  her  love  would  be  as  a  chain  about  his 
feet,  too  potent  to  suffer  him  the  slightest  indulgence 
of  his  rambling  desires. 

IX. 

So  things  stood,  when,  one  day,  what  should  ap- 
pear in  the  Port  of  St.  Mary's  —  the  Pioneer  of  the 
Line — but  a  vessel — a  schooner — a  brightly  painted, 
sharp,  cunning  looking  craft,  all  the  way  from  the 
eastern  waters,  and  commanded  by  one  of  that  dar- 
ing tribe  of  Yankees,  which  will  one  day  control  the 
commercial  world.  Never  had  such  a  craft  shown 
its  face  in  those  waters,  and  great  was  the  excitement 
in  consequence.  The  people  turned  out,  en  masse, — 
men,  women,  and  children, — all  gathered  upon  the 
sands  at  the  point  to  which  she  was  approaching,  and 
while  many  stood  dumb  with  mixed  feelings  of  won- 
der and  consternation,  others,  more  bold  and  elastic, 
shouted  with  delight.  Ned  Johnson  led  this  latter 
class,  and  almost  rushed  into  the  waters  to  meet  the 
new  comer,  clapping  his  hands  and  screaming  like 
mad.  Logoochie  himself,  from  the  close  hugging 
branches  of  a  neighbouring  tree,  looked  down,  and 
wondered  and  trembled  as  he  beheld  the  fast  rushing 
progress  toward  him  of  what  might  be  a  new  and 
more  potent  God.  Then,  when  her  little  cannon, 
^ostentatiously  large  for  the  necessity,  belched  forth  its 


50  LOGOOCHIE. 

thunders  from,  her  side,  the  joy  and  the  terrror  was 
universal.  The  rude  divinity  of  the  red  men  leaped 
down  headlong  from  his  place  of  eminence,  and 
bounded  on  without  stopping,  until  removed  from  the 
sight  and  the  shouting,  in  the  thick  recesses  of  the 
neighbouring  wood ;  while  the  children  of  the  squat- 
ters taking  to  their  heels,  went  bawling  and  squalling 
back  to  the  village,  never  thinking  for  a  moment  to 
reach  it  alive.  The  schooner  cast  her  anchor,  and 
her  captain  came  to  land.  Columbus  looked  not 
more  imposing,  leaping  first  to  the  virgin  soil  of  the 
New  World,  than  our  worthy  down-easter,  commencing, 
for  the  first  time,  a  successful  trade  in  onions,  potatoes, 
codfish,  and  crab-cider,  with  the  delighted  Georgians 
of  our  little  village.  All  parties  were  overjoyed,  and 
none  more  so  than  our  young  lover,  Master  Edward 
Johnson.  He  drank  in  with  willing  ears  and  a  still 
thirsting  appetite,  the  narrative  which  the  Yankee 
captain  gave  the  villagers  of  his  voyage.  His  long 
yarn,  be  sure,  was  stuffed  with  wonders.  The  new 
comer  soon  saw  from  Johnson's  looks  how  greatly  he 
had  won  the  respect  and  consideration  of  the  youthful 
wanderer,  and,  accordingly,  addressed  some  of  his  more 
spirited  and  romantic  adventures  purposely  to  him. 
Poor  Mary  Jones  beheld,  with  dreadful  anticipations, 
the  voracious  delight  which  sparkled  in  the  eyes  of 
Ned  as  he  listened  to  the  marvellous  narrative,  and 
had  the  thing  been  at  all  possible  or  proper,  she 
would  have  insisted,  for  the  better  control  of  the 
erratic  boy,  that  old  Parson  Collins  should  at  once  do 
his  duty,  and  give  her  legal  authority  to  say  to  her  _ 


LOGOOCHIE 


lover — "  obey,  my  dear, — stay  at  home,  or,"  etc.  She 
went  back  to  the  village  in  great  tribulation,  and  Ned 
— he  stayed  behind  with  Captain  Nicodemus  Doo- 
little,  of  the  "Smashing  Nancy." 


Now  Nicodemus,  or,  as  they  familiarly  called  him, 
"  Old  Nick,"  was  a  wonderfully  'cute  personage  ;  and 
as  he  was  rather  slack  of  hands  —  was  not  much  of  a 
penman  or  grammarian,  and  felt  that  in  his  new  trade 
he  should  need  greatly  the  assistance  of  one  to  whom 
the  awful  school  mystery  of  fractions  and  the  rule  of 
three  had,  by  a  kind  fortune,  been  developed  duly — he 
regarded  the  impression  which  he  had  obviously 
made  upon  the  mind  of  Ned  Johnson,  as  promising  to 
neutralize,  if  he  could  secure  him,  some  few  of  his 
own  deficiencies.  He  addressed  himself,  therefore, 
particularly  to  this  end,  and  was  successful.  The 
head  of  the  youth  was  now  filled  with  the  wonders  of 
the  sea ;  and  after  a  day  or  two  of  talk,  in  which  the 
captain  sold  off  his  notions,  he  came  point  blank  to 
the  subject  in  the  little  cabin  of  the  schooner.  The 
captain  sat  over  against  him,  with  many  papers 
before  him;  some  were  grievous  mysteries;  one  in 
particular,  which  called  for  the  summing  up,  consecu- 
tively, of  numerous  items  of  sale,  in  which  the  cross 
currency  of  the  different  states  worked  no  small 
increase  of  difficulty  in  his  already  bewildered  brain. 
To  reconcile  the  York  shilling,  the  Pennsylvania 
levy,  the  Georgia  thrip,  the  Carolina  fourpence,  the 
Louisiana  bit  and  pickaiune,  was  a  task  rather  beyond 


52  LOGOOCHIE. 

the  ordinary  powers  of  Captain  Doolittle.  He,  cross- 
ed his  right  leg  over  his  left,  but  still  he  failed  to 
prove  his  sum.  He  reversed  the  movement,  and  the 
left  leg  now  lay  problematically  over  the  right.  The 
product  was  very  hard  to  find.  He  took  a  sup  of 
cider,  and  then  he  thought  things  began  to  look  a 
little  clearer ;  but  a  moment  after  all  was  cloud  again, 
and  at  length  the  figures  absolutely  seemed  to  run 
into  one  another.  He  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and 
slapped  his  hand  down,  at  length,  with  such  empha- 
sis, upon  the  table,  as  to  startle  the  poor  youth,  who, 
all  the  while,  had  been  dreaming  of  plunging  and 
wriggling  dolphins,  seen  in  all  their  gold  and  glitter, 
three  feet  or  less  in  the  waters  below  the  advancing 
prow  of  the  ship.  The  start  which  Johnson  made,  at 
once  showed  the  best  mode  to  the  captain  of  extrica- 
tion from  his  difficulty. 

"  There — there,  my  dear  boy, — take  some  cider — 
only  a  little — do  you  good — best  thing  in  the  world 
—  There, — and  now  do  run  up  these  figures,  and  see 
how  we  agree." 

Ned  was  a  clever  lad,  and  used  to  staijd  head  of  his 
class.  He  unravelled  the  mystery  in  little  time — 
reconciled  the  cross-currency  of  the  several  sovereign 
states,  and  was  rewarded  by  his  patron  with  a  hearty 
slap  upon  the  shoulder,  and  another  cup  of  cider. 
It  was  not  difficult  after  this  to  agree,  and  half  fear- 
ing that  all  the  while  he  was  not  doing  right  by 
Mary  Jones,  he  dashed  his  signature,  in  a  much  worse 
hand  than  he  was  accustomed  to  write,  upon  a  printed 
paper  which  Doolittle  thrust  to  him  across  the  table, 


LOGOOUH1E.  53 

"  And  now,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  captain,  "  you 
are  my  secretary,  and  shall  have  best  berth,  and 
place  along  with  myself,  in  the  '  Smashing  Nancy.'  " 

XL 

The  bargain  had  scarcely  been  struck,  and  the 
terms  well  adjusted  with  the  Yankee  captain,  before 
Ned  Johnson  began  to  question  the  propriety  of  what 
he  had  done.  He  was  not  so  sure  that  he  had  not 
been  hasty,  and  felt  that  the  pain  his  departure  would 
inflict  upon  Mary  Jones,  would  certainly  be  as  great 
in  degree,  as  the  pleasure  which  his  future  adventures 
must  bring  to  himself.  Still,  when  he  looked  forward 
to  those  adventures,  and  remembered  the  thousand 
fine  stories  of  Captain  Doolittle,  his  dreams  came 
back,  and  with  them  came  a  due  forgetfulness  of  the 
hum-drum  happiness  of  domestic  life.  The  life  in 
the  woods,  indeed — as  if  there  was  life,  strictly  speak- 
ing, in  the  eternal  monotony  of  the  pine  forests,  and 
the  drowsy  hum  they  keep  up  so  ceaselessly.  Wood- 
chopping,  too,  was  his  aversion,  and  when  he  reflected 
upon  the  acknowledged  superiority  of  his  own  over 
all  the  minds  about  him,  he  felt  that  his  destiny  called 
upon  him  for  better  things,  and  a  more  elevated 
employment.  He  gradually  began  to  think  of  Mary 
Jones,  as  of  one  of  those  influences  which  had  sub- 
tracted somewhat  from  the  nature  and  legitimate 
exercises  of  his  own  genius;  and  whose  claims, 
therefore,  if  acknowledged  by  him,  as  she  required, 
must  only  be  acknowledged  at  the  expense  and 
sacrifice  of  the  higher  pursuits  and  purposes  for 


M  LOGOOCHIE. 

which  the  discriminating  Providence  had  designed 
him.  The  youth's  head  was  fairly  turned  by  his 
ambitious  yearnings,  and  it  was  strange  how  sub- 
timely  metaphysical  his  musings  now  made  him. 
He  began  to  analyze  closely  the  question,  since  made 
a  standing  one  among  the  phrenologists,  as  to  how 
far  particular  heads  were"  intended  for  particular 
pursuits.  General-  principles  were  soon  applied  to 
special  developments  in  his  own  case,  and  he  came, 
to  the  conclusion,  just  as  he  placed  his  feet  upon  the 
threshold  of  Father  Jones's  cottage,  that  he  should 
be  contending  with  the  aim  of  fate,  and  the  original 
design  of  the  Deity  in  his  own  creation,  if  he  did  not 
go  with  Captain  Nicodemus  Doolittle,  of  the 
"Smashing  Nancy." 

XII. 

"Ahem!  Mary — "  said  Ned,  finding  the  little  girl 
conveniently  alone,  half  sorrowful,  and  turning  the 
whizzing  spinning  wheel. 

"Ahem,  Mary — ahem — "  and  as  he  brought  forth 
the  not  very  intelligible  introduction,  his  eye  had  in 
it  a  vague  indeterminateness  that  looked  like  confu- 
sion, though,  truth  to  speak,  his  head  was  high  and 
confident  enough. 

"Well,  Ned—" 

"  Ahem !  ah,  Mary,  what  did  you  think  of  the 
beautiful  vessel.  Was  n't  she  fine,  eh?" 

"Very — very  fine,  Ned,  though  she  was  so  large, 
and,  when  the  great  gun'  was  fired,  my  heart  beat  so 
—  I  was  frightened,  Ned — that  I  was." 


LOGOOCHIE.  55 

"Frightened — why  what  frightened  you,  Mary," 
exclaimed  Ned  proudly — "that  was  grand,  and  as 
soon  as  we  get  to  sea,  I  shall  shoot  it  off  myself." 

"Get  to  sea — why  Ned — get  to  sea.  Oh,  dear, 
why — what  do  you  mean  ?"  and  the  bewildered  girl, 
half  conscious  only,  yet  doubting  her  senses,  now  left 
the  wheel,  and  came  toward  the  contracted  secretary 
of  Captain  Doolittle. 

"  Yes,  get  to  sea,  Mary.  What !  don't  you  know 
I'm  going  with  the  captain  clear  away  to  New- 
York?" 

Now,  how  should  she  know,  poor  girl  ?  He  knew 
that  she  was  ignorant,  but  as  he  did  not  feel  satisfied 
of  the  propriety  of  what  he  had  done,  his  phraseology 
had  aesumed  a  somewhat  indirect  and  distorted 
complexion. 

"  You  going  with  the  Yankee,  Ned — you  don't 
say." 

"  Yes,  but  I  do — and  what  if  he  is  a  Yankee,  and 
sells  notions — I'm  sure,  there's  no  harm  in  that; 
he's  a  main  smart  fellow,  Mary,  and  such  wonderful 
things  as  he  has  seen,  it  would  make  your  hair  stand 
on  end  to  hear  him.  I'll  see  them  too,  Mary,  and 
then  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Ned, — you're  only  joking  now — you  don't 
mean  it,  Ned — you  only  say  so  to  tease  me — Is'nt  it 
so,  Ned — say  it  is — say  yes,  dear  Ned,  only  say 
yes." 

And  the  poor  girl  caught  his  arm,  with  all  the 
confiding  warmth  of  an  innocent  heart,  and  as  the 
tears  gathered  slowly,  into  big  drops,  in  her  eyes,  and 


56  LOGOOCHIE. 

they  were  turned  appealingly  up  to  his,  the  heart  of 
the  wanderer  smote  him  for  the  pain  it  had  inflicted 
upon  one  so  gentle.  In  that  moment,  he  felt  that  he 
would  have  given  the  world  to  get  off  from  his 
bargain  with  the  captain ;  but  this  mood  lasted  not 
long.  His  active  imagination  provoking  a  curious 
thirst  after  the  unknown ;  and  his  pride,  which  sug- 
gested the  weakness  of  a  vacillating  purpose,  all 
turned  and  stimulated  him  to  resist  and  refuse  the 
prayer  of  the  conciliating  affection,  then  beginning 
to  act  within  him  in  rebuke.  Speaking  through 
his  teeth,  as  if  he  dreaded  that  he  should  want  firm- 
ness, he  resolutely  reiterated  what  he  had  said ;  and, 
while  the  sad  girl  listened,  silently,  as  one  thunder 
struck,  he  went  on  to  give  a  glowing  description  of 
the  wonderful  discoveries  in  store  for  him  during  the 
proposed  voyage.  Mary  sunk  back  upon  her  stool, 
and  the  spinning  wheel  went  faster  than  ever ;  "but 
never  in  her  life  had  she  broken  so  many  tissues.  He 
did  his  best  at  consolation,  but  the  true  hearted  girl, 
though  she  did  not  the  less  suffer  as  he  pleaded,  at  least 
forbore  all  complaint.  The  thing  seemed  irrevocable, 
and  so  she  resigned  herself,  like  a  true  woman,  to  the 
imperious  necessity.  Ned,  after  a  while,  adjusted 
his  plaited  straw  to  his  cranium,  and  sallied  forth  with 
a  due  importance  in  his  strut,  but  with  a  swelling 
something  at  his  heart,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to 
quiet. 


LOOOOCHIE.  57 

XIII. 

And  what  of  poor  Mary — the  disconsolate,  the 
deserted  and  denied  of  love.  She  said  nothing,  ate 
her  dinner  in  silence,  and  then  putting  on  her  bonnet, 
prepared  to  sally  forth  in  a  solitary  ramble. 

"  What  ails  it,  child,"  said  old  Jones,  with  a  rough 
tenderness  of  manner. 

"Where  going,  baby?"  asked  her  mother,  half* 
asleep. 

"  Out  again,  Mary  Jones — out  again,"  vociferously 
shouted  the  antique  aunt,  who  did  all  the  family 
scolding. 

The  little  girl  answered  them  all  meekly,  with- 
out the  slightest  show  of  impatience,  and  proceeded 
on  her  walk. 

The  "  Branch  of  Sweet  Water,"  now  known  by 
this  name  to  all  the  villagers  of  St.  Mary's,  was  then, 
as  it  was  supposed  to  be  his  favourite  place  of  abode, 
commonly  styled,  "  The  Branch  of  Logoochie." 
The  Indians — such  stragglers  as  either  lingered 
behind  their  tribes,  or  occasionally  visited  the  old 
scenes  of  their  home, — had  made  the  white  settlers 
somewhat  acquainted  with  the  character  and  the 
supposed  presence  of  that  playful  God,  in  the  region 
thus  assigned  him ;  and  though  not  altogether  assur- 
ed of  the  idleness  of  the  superstition,  the  young  and 
innocent  Mary  Jones  had  no  apprehensions  of  his 
power.  She,  indeed,  had  no  reason  for  fear,  for  Lo- 
goochie had  set  her  down,  long  before,  as  one  of  his 
favorites.  He  had  done  her  many  little  services,  of 
which  she  was  unaware,  nor  was  she  the  only  mem- 


68  LOGOOCHIE. 

ber  of  her  family  indebted  to  his  ministering  good 
will.  He  loved  them  all — all  but  the  scold,  and  many 
of  the  annoyances  to  which  the  old  maid  was  subject, 
arose  from  this  antipathy  of  Logoochie.  But  to 
return. 

It  was  in  great  tribulation  that  Mary  set  out  for  her 
usual  ramble  along  the  banks  of  the  "  Sweet  Water." 
Heretofore  most  of  her  walks  in  that  quarter  had 
been  made  in  company  with  her  lover.  Here, 
perched  in  some  sheltering  oak,  or  safely  doubled  up 
behind  some  swollen  pine,  the  playful  Logoochie, 
himself  unseen,  a  thousand  times  looked  upon  the 
two  lovers,  as,  with  linked  arms,  and  spirits  maintain- 
ing, as  it  appeared,  a  perfect  unison,  they  walked  in 
the  shade  during  the  summer  afternoon.  Though 
sportive  and  mischievous,  such  sights  were  pleasant 
to  one  who  dwelt  alone  ;  and  there  were  many 
occasions,  when,  their  love  first  ripening  into  expres- 
sion, he  would  divert  from  their  path,  by  some  little 
adroit  art  or  management  of  his  own,  the  obtrusive 
and  unsympathising  woodman,  who  might  otherwise 
have  spoiled  the  sport  which  he  could  not  be  per- 
mitted to  share.  Under  his  unknown  sanction  and  ser- 
vice, therefore,  the  youthful  pair  had  found  love  a  rap- 
ture, until,  at  length,  poor  Mary  had  learned  to  regard 
it  as  a  necessary  too.  She  knew  the  necessity  from 
the  privation,  as  she  now  rambled  alone ;  her  wan- 
dering lover  meanwhile  improving  his  knowledge  by 
some  additional  chit-chat,  on  matters  and  things  in 
general,  with  the  captain,  with  whom  he  had  that  day 
dined  heartily  on  codfish  and  potatoes,  a  new  dish  to 


LOGOOCHIE.  59 

young  Johnson,  which  gave  him  an  additional  idea  of 
the  vast  resources  of  the  sea. 

XIV. 

Mary  Jones  at  length  trod  the  banks  of  the  Sweet 
Water,  and  footing  it  along  the  old  pathway  to  where 
the  rivulet  narrowed,  she  stood  under  the  gigantic 
tree  which  threw  its  sheltering  and  concealing  arms 
completely  across  the  stream.  With  an  old  hahit, 
rather  than  a  desire  for  its  refreshment,  she  took  the 
gourd  from  the  limb  whence  it  depended,  pro  bono 
publico,  over  the  water,  and  scooping  up  a  draught  of 
the  innocent  beverage,  she  proceeded  to  drink,  when, 
just  as  she  carried  the  vessel  to  her  lips,  a  deep 
moan  assailed  her  ears,  as  from  one  in  pain,  and  at  a 
little  distance.  She  looked  up,  and  the  moan  was 
repeated,  and  with  increased  fervency.  She  saw 
nothing,  however,  and  somewhat  startled,  was  about 
to  turn  quickly  on  her  way  homeward,  when  a  third 
and  more  distinct  repetition  of  the  moan,  appealed  so 
strongly  to  her  natural  sense  of  duty,  that  she  could 
stand  it  no  longer ;  and  with  the  noblest  of  all  kinds 
of  courage,  for  such  is  the  courage  of  humanity,  she 
hastily  tripped  over  the  log  which  ran  across  the 
stream,  and  proceeded  in  the  direction  from  whence 
the  sounds  had  issued.  A  few  paces  brought  her  in 
sight  of  the  sufferer,  who  was  no  other  than  our  soli- 
tary acquaintance,  Logoochie.  He  lay  upon  the 
grass,  doubled  now  into  a  knot,  and  now  stretching 
and  writhing  himself  about  in  agony.  His  whole  ap- 
pearance indicated  suffering,  and  there  was  nothing 


60  LOGOOCH1E. 

equivocal  in  the  expression  of  his  meanings.  The 
astonishment,  not  to  say  fright,  of  the  little  cottage 
maiden,  may  readily  be  conjectured.  She  saw,  for 
the  first  time,  the  hideous  and  uncouth  outline  of 
his  person — the  ludicrous  combination  of  feature  in 
his  face.  She  had  heard  of  Logoochie,  vaguely; 
and  without  giving  much,  if  any,  credence  to  the 
mysterious  tales  related  by  the  credulous  woodman, 
returning  home  at  evening,  of  his  encounter  in  the 
forest  with  its  pine-bodied  divinity; — and  now,  as 
she  herself  looked  down  upon  the  suffering  and 
moaning  monster,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  whether 
curiosity  or  fear  was  the  most  active  principle  in  her 
bosom.  He  saw  her  approach,  and  he  half  moved 
to  rise  and  fly;  but  a  sudden  pang,  as  it  seemed, 
brought  him  back  to  a  due  sense  of  the  evil  from 
which  he  was  suffering,  and,  looking  towards  the 
maiden  with  a  mingled  expression  of  good  humor 
and  pain  in  his  countenance,  he  seemed  to  implore 
her  assistance.  The  poor  girl  did  not  exactly  know 
what  to  do,  or  what  to  conjecture.  What  sort  of 
monster  was  it  before  her.  What  queer,  distorted, 
uncouth  limbs — what  eyes,  that  twinkled  and  danced 
into  one  another — and  what  a  mouth.  She  was  stu- 
pified  for  a  moment,  until  he  spoke,  and,  stranger  still, 
in  a  language  that  she  understood.  And  what  a 
musical  voice, — how  sweetly  did  the  words  roll 
forth,  and  how  soothingly,  yet  earnestly,  did  they 
strike  upon  her  ear.  Language  is  indeed  a  God, 
and  powerful  before  all  the  rest.  His  words  told  her 
all  his  misfortunes,  and  the  tones  were  all-sufficient 


LOGOOCUIE.  61 

to  inspire  confidence  in  one  even  more  suspicious 
than  our  innocent  cottager.  Besides,  humanity  was 
a  principle  in  her  heart,  while  fear  was  only  an  emo- 
tion, and  she  did  not  scruple,  where  the  two  conflict- 
ed, after  the  pause  for  reflection  of  a  moment,  to 
determine  in  favour  of  the  former.  She  approached 
Logoochie — she  approached  him,  firmly  determined 
in  her  purpose,  but  trembling  all  the  while.  As  she 
drew  nigh,  the  gentle  monster  stretched  himself  out 
at  length,  patiently  extending  one  foot  towards  her, 
and  raising  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  indicate  the 
place  which  afflicted  him.  She  could  scarce  forbear 
laughing,  when  she  looked  closely  upon  the  strange 
feet.  They  seemed  covered  with  bark,  like  that  of 
the  small  leafed  pine  tree ;  but  as  she  stooped,  to  her 
great  surprise,  the  coating  of  his  sole,  flew  wide  as  if 
upon  a  hinge,  showing  below  it  a  skin  as  soft,  and 
white,  and  tender,  seemingly,  as  her  own.  There,  in 
the  centre  of  the  hollow,  lay  the  cause  of  his  suffer- 
ing. A  poisonous  thorn  had  penetrated,  almost  to 
the  head,  as  he  had  suddenly  leaped  from  the  tree, 
the  day  before,  upon  the  gun  being  fired  from  the 
"Smashing  Nancy."  The  spot  around  it  was  greatly 
inflamed,  and  Logoochie,  since  the  accident,  had 
vainly  striven,  in  every  possible  way,  to  rid  himself 
of  the  intruder.  His  short,  inflexible  arms,  had  failed 
so  to  reach  it  as  to  make  his  fingers  available ;  and 
then,  having  claws  rather  than  nails,  he  could 
scarce  have  done  any  thing  for  his  own  relief,  even 
could  they  have  reached  it.  He  now  felt  the  evil  of 
his  isolation,  and  the  danger  of  his  seclusion  from 


62  LOGOOCHIE. 

his  brother  divinities.  His  case  was  one,  indeed,  of 
severe  bachelorism ;  and,  doubtless,  had  his  condition 
been  less  than  that  of  a  deity,  the  approach  of  Mary 
Jones  to  his  aid,  at  such  a  moment,  would  have  pro- 
duced a  dreaded  revolution  in  his  domestic  economy. 
Still  trembling,  the  maiden  bent  herself  down  to  the 
task,  and  with  a  fine  courage,  that  did  not  allow  his 
uncouth  limbs  to  scare,  or  his  wild  and  monstrous 
features  to  deter,  she  applied  her  own  small  fingers  to 
the  foot,  and  carefully  grappling  the  head  of  the  wound- 
ing thorn  with  her  nails,  with  a  successful  effort,  she 
drew  it  forth  and  rid  him  of  his  encumbrance.  The 
wood-god  leaped  to  his  feet,  threw  a  dozen  antics  in 
the  air,  to  the  great  terror  of  Mary,  then  running  a 
little  way  into  the  forest,  soon  returned  with  a  hand- 
ful of  fresh  leaves,  which  he  bruised  between  his 
fingers,  and  applied  to  the  irritated  and  wounded  foot. 
He  was  well  in  a  moment  after,  and  pointing  the 
astonished  Mary  to  the  bush  from  which  he  had  taken 
the  anointing  leaves,  thus  made  her  acquainted  with 
one  item  in  the  history  of  Indian  pharmacy. 

XV. 

"  The  daughter  of  the  white  clay  —  she  has  come 
to  Logoochie,  —  to  Logoochie  when  he  was  suffering. 

"  She  is  a  good  daughter  to  Logoochie,  and  the 
green  spirits  who  dwell  in  the  forests,  they  love,  and 
will  honor  her. 

"  They  will  throw  down  the  leaves  before  her,  they 
will  spread  the  branches  above  her,  they  will  hum  a 


LOGOOCHIE.  63 

sweet  song  in  the  tree  top,  when  she  walks  under- 
neath it. 

"  They  will  watch  beside  her,  as  she  sleeps  in  the 
shade,  in  the  warm  sun  of  the  noon-day, — they  will 
keep  the  flat  viper,  and  the  war  rattle,  away  from  her 
ear. 

"  They  will  do  this  to  honor  Logoochie,  for  they 
know  Logoochie,  and  he  loves  the  pale  daughter. 
She  came  to  him  in  his  suffering. 

"  She  drew  the  poison  thorn  from  his  foot  —  she 
fled  not  away  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Speak,  —  let  Logoochie  hear  —  there  is  sorrow 
in  the  face  of  the  pale  daughter.  Logoochie  would 
know  it  and  serve  her,  for  she  is  sweet  in  the  eye  of 
Logoochie." 

XVI. 

Thus  said,  or  rather  sung,  the  uncouth  god,  to 
Mary,  as,  after  the  first  emotions  of  his  own  joy  were 
over,  he  beheld  the  expression  of  melancholy  in  her 
countenance.  Somehow,  there  was  something  so 
fatherly,  so  gentle,  and  withal,  so  melodious,  in  his 
language,  that  she  soon  unbosomed  herself  to  him, 
telling  him  freely  and  in  the  utmost  confidence,  though 
without  any  hope  of  relief  at  his  hands,  the  history 
of  her  lover,  and  the  new  project  for  departure  which 
he  had  now  got  in  his  head.  She  was  surprised,  and 
pleased,  when  she  saw  that  Logoochie  smiled  at  the 
narrative.  She  was  not  certain,  yet  she  had  a  vague 
hope,  that  he  could  do  something  for  her  relief;  and 
her  conjecture  was  not  in  vain.  He  spoke  —  "  Why 


64  LOGOOCHIE. 

should  the  grief  be  in  the  heart  and  the  cloud  on  the 
face  of  the  maiden  ?  Is  not  Logoochie  to  help  her  ? 
He  stands  beside  her  to  help.  Look,  daughter  of  the 
pale  clay  —  look !  There  is  a  power  in  the  leaf  that 
shall  serve  thee  at  the  bidding  of  Logoochie; — the 
bough  and  the  branch  have  a  power  for  thy  good, 
when  Logoochie  commands ;  and  the  little  red-berry 
which  I  now  pluck  from  the  vine  hanging  over  thee, 
it  is  strong  with  a  spirit  which  is  good  in  thy  work, 
when  Logoochie  has  said  in  thy  service.  Lo,  I  speak 
to  the  leaf,  and  to  the  bough,  and  to  the  berry.  They 
shall  speak  to  the  water,  and  one  draught  from  the 
branch  of  Logoochie,  shall  put  chains  on  the  heart 
of  the  youth  who  would  go  forth  with  the  stranger." 

As  he  spoke,  he  gathered  the  leaf,  broke  a  bough 
from  an  overhanging  tree,  and,  with  a  red  berry, 
pulled  from  a  neighboring  vine,  approached  the 
Branch  of  Sweet  Water,  and  turning  to  the  west, 
muttered  a  wild  spell  of  Indian  power,  then  threw 
the  tributes  into  the  rivulet.  The  smooth  surface  of 
the  stream  was  in  an  instant  ruffled  —  the  offerings 
were  whirled  suddenly  around  —  the  waters  broke, 
boiled,  bubbled  and  parted,  and,  in  another  moment, 
the  bough,  the  berry,  and  the  leaf,  had  disappeared 
from  their  sight. 

XVII. 

Mary  Jones  was  not  a  little  frightened  by  these 
exhibitions,  but  she  was  a  girl  of  courage,  and  having 
once  got  over  the  dread  and  the  novelty  of  contact 
with  a  form  so  monstrous  as  that  of  Logoochie,  the 


LOOOOCUIE.  66 

after  effort  was  not  so  great.  She  witnessed  the 
incantations  of  the  demon  without  a  word,  and  when 
they  were  over,  she  simply  listened  to  his  farther 
directions,  half  stupified  with  what  she  had  seen,  and 
not  knowing  how  much  of  it  to  believe.  He  bade 
her  bring  her  lover,  as  had  been  the  custom  with 
them  hitherto,  to  the  branch,  and  persuade  him  to 
drink  of  its  waters.  When  she  inquired  into  its 
effect,  which,  at  length,  with  much  effort  she  ventured 
to  do,  he  bade  her  be  satisfied,  and  all  would  go  right. 
Then,  with  a  word,  which  was  like  so  much  music  — 
a  word  she  did  not  understand,  but  which  sounded  like 
a  parting  acknowledgment,  —  he  bounded  away  into 
the  woods,  and,  a  moment  after,  was  completely 
hidden  from  her  sight. 

XVIIL 

Poor  Mary,  not  yet  relieved  from  her  surprise,  was 
still  sufficiently  aroused  and  excited  to  believe  there 
was  something  in  it ;  and  as  she  moved  off  on  her 
way  home,  how  full  of  anticipation  was  her  thoughts — 
pleasant  anticipation  in  which  her  heart  took  active 
interest,  and  warmed,  at  length,  into  a  strong  and 
earnest  hope.  She  scarcely  gave  herself  time  to  get 
home,  and  never  did  the  distance  between  Sweet 
Water  Branch  and  the  cottage  of  her  father  appear 
so  extravagantly  great.  She  reached  it,  however,  at 
last;  and  there,  to  her  great  joy,  sat  her  lover,  along- 
side the  old  man,  and  giving  him  a  glowing  account, 
such  as  he  had  received  from  the  Yankee  Captain,  of 
the  wonders  to  be  met  with  in  his  coming  voyage. 


66  LOGOOCHIE. 

Old  Jones  listened  patiently,  puffing  his  pipe  all  the 
while,  and  saying  little,  but  now  and  then,  by  way  of 
commentary,  uttering  an  ejaculatory  grunt,  most 
commonly,  of  sneering  disapproval. 

"  Better  stay  at  home,  a  d — d  sight,  Ned  Johnson, 
and  follow  the  plough." 

Ned  Johnson,  however,  thought  differently,  and  it 
was  no^t  the  farmer's  grunts  or  growlings  that  was 
now  to  change  his  mind.  Fortunately  for  the  course 
of  true  love,  there  were  other  influences  at  work,  and 
the  impatience  of  Mary  Jones  to  try  them  was  evident, 
in  the  clumsiness  which  she  exhibited  while  passing 
the  knife  under  the  thin  crust  of  the  corn  hoe-cake 
that  night  for  supper,  and  laying  the  thick  masses  of 
fresh  butter,  between  the  smoking  and  savory -smell- 
ing sides,  as  she  turned  them  apart.  The  evening  wore, 
at  length,  and,  according  to  an  old  familiar  habit,  the 
lovers  walked  forth  to  the  haunted  and  fairy-like 
branch  of  Logoochie,  or  the  Sweet  Water.  It  was 
the  last  night  in  which  they  were  to  be  together,  prior 
to  his  departure  in  the  Smashing  Nancy.  That 
bouncing  vessel  and  her  dexterous  Captain  were  to 
depart  with  early  morning;  and  it  was  as  little  as 
Ned  Johnson  could  do,  to  spend  that  night  with  his 
sweetheart.  They  were  both  melancholy  enough, 
depend  upon  it.  She,  poor  girl,  hoping  much,  yet 
still  fearing  —  for  when  was  true  love  without  fear  — 
she  took  his  arm,  hung  fondly  upon  it,  and,  without 
a  word  between  them  for  a  long  while,  inclined  him, 
as  it  were  naturally,  in  the  required  direction.  Ned 
really  loved  her,  and  was  sorry  enough  when  the 


LOGOOCHIE.  C7 

thought  came  to  him,  that  this  might  be  the  last  night 
of  their  association;  but  he  plucked  up  courage,  with 
the  momentary  weakness,  and  though  he  spoke 
kindly,  yet  he  spoke  fearlessly,  and  with  a  sanguine 
temper,  upon  the  prospect  of  the  sea-adventure  before 
him.  Mary  said  little  —  her  heart  was  too  full  for 
speech,  but  she  looked  up  now  and  then  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw,  by  the  moonlight,  that  her  own  glistened 
as  with  tears.  He  turned  away  his  glance  as  he  saw 
it,  for  his  heart  smote  him  with  the  reproach  of  her 
desertion. 

XIX. 

They  came  at  length  to  the  charmed  streamlet,  the 
Branch  of  the  Sweet  Water,  to  this  day  known  for 
its  fascinations.  The  moon  rose  sweetly  above  it,  the 
trees  coming  out  in  her  soft  light,  and  the  scatterings 
of  her  thousand  beams  glancing  from  the  green  polish 
of  their  crowding  leaves.  The  breeze  that  rose  along 
with  her  was  soft  and  wooing  as  herself;  while  the 
besprinkling  fleece  of  the  small  white  clouds,  cluster- 
ing along  the  sky,  and  flying  from  her  splendors, 
made  the  scene,  if  possible,  far  more  fairy-like  and 
imposing.  It  was  a  scene  for  love,  and  the  heart  of 
Ned  Johnson  grew  more  softened  than  ever.  His 
desire  for  adventure  grew  modified ;  and  when  Mary 
bent  to  the  brooklet  and  scooped  up  the  water  for  him 
to  drink,  with  the  water-gourd  that  hung  from  the 
bough,  wantoning  in  the  breeze  that  loved  to  play 
over  the  pleasant,  stream,  Ned  could  not  help  thinking 
she  never  looked  more  beautiful.  The  water  trickled 


68  LOGOOCHIE. 

I 

from  the  gourd  as  she  handed  it  to  him,  falling  like 
droppings  of  the  moonshine  again  into  its  parent 
stream.  You  should  have  seen  her  eye — so  full  of 
hope — so  full  of  doubt — so  beautiful — so  earnest, — 
as  he  took  the  vessel  from  her  hands.  For  a  moment 
he  hesitated,  and  then  how  her  heart  beat  and  her 
limbs  trembled.  But  he  drank  off  the  contents  at  a 
draught,  and  gave  no  sign  of  emotion.  Yet  his 
emotions  were  strange  and  novel.  It  seemed  as  if  so 
much  ice  had  gone  through  his  veins  in  that  moment. 
He  said  nothing',  however,  and  dipping  up  a  gourd 
full  for  Mary,  he  hung  the  vessel  again  upon  the 
pendant  bough,  and  the  two  moved  away  from  the 
water — not,  however,  before  the  maiden  caught  a 
glimpse,  through  the  intervening  foliage,  of  those 
two  queer,  bright,  little  eyes  of  Logoochie,  with  a 
more  delightful  activity  than  ever,  dancing  gayly  into 


XX. 

But  the  spell  had  been  effectual,  and  a  new  nature 
filled  the  heart  of  him,  who  had  heretofore  sighed 
vaguely  for  the  unknown.  The  roving  mood  had 
entirely  departed ;  he  was  no  longer  a  wanderer  in 
spirit,  vexed  to  be  denied.  A  soft  languor  overspread 
his  form — a  weakness  gathered  and  grew  about  his 
heart,  and  he  now  sighed  unconsciously.  How  soft, 
yet  how  full  of  emphasis,  was  the  pressure  of  Marv's 
hand  upon  his  arm  as  she  heard  that  sigh;  and  how 
forcibly  did  it  remind  the  youth  that  she  who  walked 
beside  him  was  his  own — his  own  forever.  With  the 


LOOOOCHIE.  69 

thought  came  a  sweet  perspective — a  long  vista  rose 
up  before  his  eyes,  crowded  with  images  of  repose  and 
plenty,  such  as  the  domestic  nature  likes  to  dream  of. 

"Oh,  Mary,  I  will  not  go  with  this  Captain — I 
will  not.  I  will  stay  at  home  with  you,  and  we  shall 
he  married." 

Thus  he  spoke,  as  the  crowding  thoughts,  such  as 
we  have  described,  came  up  before  his  fancy. 

"Will  you— shall  we?  Oh,  dear  Edward,  I  am 
so  happy." 

And  the  maiden  blessed  Logoochie,  as  she  uttered 
her  response  of  happy  feeling. 

"  I  will,  dear — but  I  must  hide  from  Doolittle.  I 
have  signed  papers  to  go  with  him,  and  he  will  be  so 
disappointed — I  must  hide  from  him." 

"  Why  must  you  hide,  Edward — he  cannot  compel 
you  to  go,  unless  you  please;  and  you  just  to  be 
married." 

Edward  thought  she  insisted  somewhat  unnecessa- 
rily upon  the  latter  point,  but  he  replied  to  the  first. 

"I  am  afraid  he  can.  I  signed  papers — I  don't 
know  what  they  were,  for  I  was  rash  and  foolish  — 
but  they  bound  me  to  go  with  him,  and  unless  I  keep 
out  of  the  way,  I  shall  have  to  go." 

"  Oh,  dear — why,  Ned,  where  will  you  go — you 
must  hide  close,  —  I  would  not  have  him  find  you  for 
the  world." 

"  I  reckon  not.  As  to  the  hiding,  I  can  go  where 
all  St.  Mary's  can't  find  me;  and  that's  in  Okepha- 
nokee." 


70  LOGOOCHIE. 

'  Oh,  don't  go  so  far  —  it  is  so  dangerous,  for  some 
of  the  Seminoles  are  there !" 

"  And  what  if  they  are  ?  —  I  don't  care  that  for  the 
Seminoles.  They  never  did  me  any  harm,  and  never 
\vill.  But,  I  shan't  go  quite  so  far.  Bull  swamp  is 
close  enough  for  me,  and  there  I  can  watch  the 
"Smashing  Nancy"  'till  she  gets  out  to  sea." 

XXI. 

Having  thus  determined,  it  was  not  long  before 
Ned  Johnson  made  himself  secure  in  his  place  of 
retreat,  while  Captain  Doolittle,  of  the  "  Smashing 
Nancy,"  in  great  tribulation,  ransacked  the  village  of 
St.  Mary's  in  every  direction  for  his  articled  seaman, 
for  such  Ned  Johnson  had  indeed  become.  Doolittle 
deserved  to  lose  him  for  the  trick  which,  in  this 
respect,  he  had  played  upon  the  boy.  His  search 
proved  fruitless,  and  he  was  compelled  to  sail  at  last. 
Ned,  from  the  top  of  a  high  tree  on  the  edge  of  Bull 
swamp,  watched  his  departure,  until  the  last  gleam  of 
the  white  sail  flitted  away  from  the  horizon;  then 
descending,  he  made  his  way  back  to  St.  Mary's,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  he  claimed  and  received  the 
hand  of  his  pretty  cottager  in  marriage.  Logoochie 
was  never  seen  in  the  neighbourhood  after  this  event. 
His  accident  had  shown  him  the  necessity  of  keeping 
with  his  brethren,  for,  reasoning  from  all  analogy, 
gods  must  be  social  animals  not  less  than  men.  But, 
in  departing,  he  forgot  to  take  the  spell  away  which 
he  had  put  upon  the  SAveet  Water  Branch;  and  to 
this  day,  the  stranger,  visiting  St.  Mary's,  is  warned 


LOGOOCIIIE. 


not  to  drink  from  the  stream,  unless  he  proposes  to 
remain;  for  still,  as  in  the  case  of  Ned  Johnson,  it 
binds  the  feet  and  enfeebles  the  enterprise  of  him  who 
partakes  of  its  pleasant  waters. 


SONG. 

O !  why  do  they  say  that  affection  is  vain, 
Brings  wo  while  it  lasts,  and  soon  closes  in  pain ; 
That  changes  and  death  on  our  friendships  will  steal, 
That,  'tis  folly  to  love,  and  but  sorrow  to  feel? 

'Tis  true  that  our  friendships  may  change  and  decay; 
But  do  we  for  that  cast  the  flowers  away  ? 
And  will  not  the  falsehood  of  many  a  loved  name, 
Make  dearer  the  few  who  are  ever  the  same? 

For  death,  which  they  say  puts  an  end  to  our  love, 
Sets  it  safe  from  all  change,  in  its  own  home  above' 
Then  cherish  affections,  for  happiness  given, 
For  changeless,  and  endless,  they  flourish  in  heaven ! 

SlGNORINA. 


THE    YOUNG   MOTHER, 


BY   ORKNVILLE  MELLEN. 


Heaven  Ues  about  us  in  our  infancy. 

WORDSWORTH. 


I. 

A  YOUNG  and  gentle  mother, 

She  bows  above  her  boy, 
And  a  tear  is  in  her  downcast  eye, 

But  'tis  the  tear  of  joy  — 
Of  one  whose  few  fair  summers 

On  golden  wings  have  sped, 
Like  childhood's  dreams  of  Paradise, 

Above  her  sainted  head. 
Loved,  ere  her  life's  flush  morning 

Had  kindled  into  day, 
And  worshipped,  as  she  wooed  the  flowers 

That  bloomed  around  her  way, 
By  one  whose  warm  affections 

On  her  wondrous  beauty  hung. 
And  their  first  taintless  tribute  gave 

To  the  shrine  to  which  they  clung ! 


THE    YOUNG   MOTHER. 
II. 

A  young  and  gentle  mother  — 

Still  beautiful,  but  pale 
With  sleepless  but  unwearied  watch, 

Alike  through  joy  and  wail. 
A  mother !  —  yet  believing 

Life's  duties  scarce  begun  — 
Whose  childhood  seemed  of  yesterday. 

In  its  unclouded  sun ; 
So  early  had  the  story 

Of  idol  Love  been  told  — 
So  early  had  her  virgin  heart 

Been  gathered  to  its  fold ! 

III. 
And  he  who  won  her  —  where  is  he, 

In  this  her  day  of  pride, 
When  every  hope  she  claimed  before. 

By  this  grew  dim  and  died  1 
So  priceless  was  the  treasure 

Her  throbbing  bosom  bore, 
So  centered  was  her  spirit  now 

On  one  she  could  adore ! 
Where  is  he !  —  Ah !  her  vision 

Is  of  shadowy  ships  and  seas — 
And  for  him  the  unuttered  prayer 

Is  poured  on  bended  knees. 
Each  day  in  thought  she  follows 

His  stormy  ocean  track, 
And  every  dreamy  midnight  still 

Her  pillow  brings  him  back. 


THE    YOUNG   MOTHER. 

For  he — for  distant  regions 

Torn  early  from  her  side, — 
Had  parted,  with  his  heart  in  tears, 

From  that  outsobbing  bride. 

IV. 
Long  time  afar  he  lingered, 

And  oft  the  message  came 
Of  fadeless  love  —  and  of  cruel  fate 

The  tale  was  still  the  same. 
Years  fled  —  and  still  he  wandered — 

In  one  long  dream  of  home, 
And  prattling  voices  round  its  hearth  — 

An  exile,  doomed  to  roam 

V. 

At  length  her  leaping  spirit 

Its  promised  bliss  had  found, 
And  she  heard  its  pulses  quick  and  loud 

Beat  to  the  welcome  sound. 
He  on  the  bounding  waters 

Had  cast  himself  once  more, 
To  greet  that  home,  and  hearth,  and  bride. 

That  rose  above  their  roar 
Like  lights  amid  a  tempest — 

Bright  beacons  of  the  land, 
Where  all  we  love  shall  hail  us  soon, 

A  joy-inspiring  band ! 


THE   YOUNG    MOTHER 
VI. 

'Twas  then  I  saw  that  mother, 

And  babe  with  silken  hair, 
And  all  a  mother's  pride  and  hope, 

Just  dashed  with  fear,  was  there. 
Her  head  upon  his  temple 

Was  stooped  in  pensive  rest, 
Mingling  its  light,  uncumbered  locks 

With  those  that  veiled  her  breast, 
Her  eye,  just  dropped  in  shadow, 

Looked  melancholy  down, 
And  the  tear  that  glittered  from  its  depths 

Was  not  of  grief  alone  — 
But  the  still  look  of  thankfulness 

That  o'er  her  features  fell, 
Lent  even  to  the  tears  a  beam 

That  told  you  all  was  well ! 
One  arm  around  her  idol 

Protectingly  was  flung, 
The  other,  as  of  one  in  dreams, 

Beside  her  aimless  hung. — 


VIL 

O  Innocence  and  Beauty!  — 
And  Youth,  with  all  its  flowers, 

When  they  together  round  us  come, 
What  a  heritage  is  ours ! 

Who  ever  dreams  a  sepulchre 
O'er  such  can  darkly  close, 


THE    YOUNG    MOTHER. 


Or  the  heart's  sun  e'er  set  in  clouds, 
That  robed  in  lustre  rose ! 


VIII. 

Alas !  that  gentle  mother  — 

I  saw  her  not  again, 
Till,  in  my  village  wanderings, 

I  joined  the  burial  train. 
They  told  me,  as  we  silent  wheeled 

Among  the  verdant  graves, 
That  he,  her  first  —  last  hope  on  earth, 

"Was  snatched  into  the  waves  !  — 
And,  ever  after,  that  her  cheek, 

Like  her  infant's  eye,  grew  dim, 
And  her  waning  life  was  but  a  prayer. 

Or  quiet,  lonely  hymn.  — 
And  thus  her  passing  spirit 

Beheld  her  infant's  go, 
'Till  all  that  lit  her  pilgrimage 

Was  shattered  at  a  blow. 
Then,  pointing  to  the  tomb,  her  fate 

Began  their  faltering  way 
Through  earth's  last  farewell  faded  bloom, 

To  Immortality! 


MUERTE   EN   GARROTE  VIL. 


BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  A  YEAR  IN  SPAIN. 


IT  was  my  fortune  to  be  in  Madrid  during  the 
whole  month  of  February,  1834.  For  years  the 
hard  hand  of  despotism  had  borne  heavily  on  the  peo- 
ple of  that  brilliant  capital,  dooming1  them  to  a 
state  of  quiescent  dulness  unsuited  to  their  character. 
The  theatre  and  the  bull-fignt  were  the  only  pastimes 
permitted  by  a  jealous  government  uncertain  of  its 
stability,  and  suspicious  of  any  reunions  that  might 
minister  to  the  designs  of  conspirators  against  the 
Altar  and  the  Throne.  The  theatre,  of  course,  under 
a  searching  censorship,  might  easily  be  prevented 
from  becoming  a  school  of  insubordination.  There 
was  little  danger  of  the  audience  extracting  from  the 
entertainment,  which  was  there  provided  for  them, 
any  such  lessons  of  disloyalty  as  might  have  been 
drawn  from  the  representations  of  tragedies  like  the 
Philip  of  Alfieri.  Their  religious  feelings  were  kept 
alive,  on  the  contrary,  by  the  spectacle  of  Pelayo, 


78  HUERTE   EN  GARROTE  VIL. 

struggling  in  defence  of  the  faith;  or  of  the  Catholic 
kings  administering  the  death  blow  to  Paganism  in 
the  vega  of  Granada ;  their  loyalty  was  nourished  by 
the  contemplation  of  how  that  truly  Spanish  virtue 
was  honored  in  the  achievements  of  the  Cid,  of  Guz- 
man, and  of  Garci  Perez  de  Vargas ;  whilst  in  order 
not  wholly  to  weary  with  the  tame  spectacle  of  good- 
ness creatures  born  with  all  the  evil  propensities  that 
man  is  heir  to,  and  to  cultivate  a  sentiment  natural  to 
the  soil,  which  might  be  turned  advantageously  against 
all  liberals,  free-masons,  and  enemies  to  the  ancient 
customs  of  Spain — that  of  which  a  Spaniard  thinks 
when  he  exclaims  with  such  a  proud  energy — 
nuestros  antiguos  cosluvibres  ! — The  sentiment  of  stern 
hatred  was  kept  alive  in  their  bosoms,  by  the  frequent 
exhibition  of  such  scenes  as  abound  in  the  '  Secret 
Revenge  to  a  Secret  Injury,'  or,  '  Vengeance  to  the 
Death;1  the  merciless  imaginations  of  that  Calderon, 
who  had  a  double  claim  to  be  vindictive,  in  being  both 
a  soldier  and  a  priest.  The  bull-fight,  the  never  failing 
spectacle  of  death  to  man  or  beast,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  to  both ;  the  tragedy,  in  which  all  the  blows 
are  real,  and  the  blood,  the  warm  current  in  which 
life  pours  itself  forth,  was  well  suited,  by  brutalizing 
the  minds  of  the  common  people,  to  accommodate 
them  to  the  despotism  under  which  they  lived. 

In  those  days,  each  carnival  came  and  went  unat- 
tended with  rejoicings,  beyond  the  discharge  of  sugar- 
plums at  a  passing  acquaintance,  from  a  fair  hand 
behind  a  balcony  or  verandah.  There  were  no  public 
balls,  and  even  persons  of  distinction,  wishing  to 


MUERTE   EN   GARROTE  VIL.  79 

honor  the  season,  by  a  festive  reunion,  within  the 
domestic  citadel,  and  sanctuary  of  their  own  homes, 
could  with  difficulty  obtain  permission  to  do  so  from  the 
Prefect  of  Police.  Now,  however,  all  was  changed. 
The  government  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
liberals ;  unrestrained  license  had  succeeded  to  watch- 
ful oppression  j  balls  and  maskings  became  the  busi- 
ness of  life ;  and  a  whole  population,  abandoning  itself 
to  a  mad  spirit  of  gayety,  sought  to  concentrate,  into 
one  month  of  revelry,  the  amusements  which  should 
have  been  spread  over  the  past  years,  during  which 
despotism  had  suppressed  them.  Theatres,  cafes,  and 
taverns,  were  extemporized  into  ball-rooms.  There 
were  diversions  for  the  high  and  for  the  low;  for 
those  who  had  great  means,  and  those  who  had  little. 
Maskers  paraded  the  streets  in  the  most  grotesque 
costumes,  music  broke  from  each  house,  and  the 
tinkling  guitar  of  the  serenader  was  heard  under 
every  balcony. 

It  was  not  easy  to  be  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes 
without  being  drawn  into  the  universal  whirl. 
Though  there  was  nothing  in  all  this  round  of  dissi- 
pation congenial  to  my  habits,  or  in  harmony  with 
my  tastes,  I  yet  found  myself  almost  nightly  going, 
in  company  with  my  associates,  to  one  or  more  of 
these  scenes  of  festivity.  Fond  of  early  hours  and  of 
a  quiet  life,  each  morning  saw  me  retracing  my  steps 
to  my  lodgings,  serenaded  by  the  first  crowing  of  the 
cock,  and  the  howl  of  the  lazaroni  dogs,  which  forage 
disowned  in  the  streets  of  the  capital. 

I  had  been  one  night  at  the  most  brilliant  ball  that 


80  MUERTE  EN   GARROTE   VIL. 

I  had  ever  seen  in  Madrid.  It  was  at  the  palace  of 
an  illustrious  ambassador,  and  brought  together  an 
elegant  assemblage  of  ministers  of  state,  diplomats, 
the  choice  of  the  nobility,  and  whatever  was  most 
distinguished  in  the  capital.  The  collection  of  beauty 
was  most  dazzling ;  the  eyes,  the  forms,  the  feet,  the 
ankles,  such  as  could  only  be  seen  in  Spain ;  the 
dresses  were  imitated  from  all  that  is  most  graceful 
in  the  costumes  of  the  world,  and  the  supper  such  as 
to  do  no  discredit  to  a  host  who  was  there  with  a 
salary,  which,  done  into  Spanish  reals,  would  have 
made  somewhat  more  than  a  million.  With  such 
temptations,  and  with  people  to  talk  to,  whom  I  had 
known  and  valued  years  before,  it  was  easy  to  find 
the  time  slipping  away,  and  to  discover,  as  I  retraced 
my  steps  homeward,  that  the  hour  was  an  unusually 
late  one. 

I  made  as  I  went,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the 
reflection,  that  after  all,  the  most  agreeable  part  of  the 
most  agreeable  ball,  is  the  moment  when  one  escapes 
from  observation,  constraint,  and  suffocation,  to 
solitude  and  the  open  air, — to  communion  with  the 
serene  heavens,  and  with  himself.  I  longed  for  the 
day  when  the  carnival  should  at  length  be  over,  and 
Catholic  Spain  return  from  masquerades  to  masses ;  — 
when  sermons,  listened  to  in  the  dim  and  darkened 
naves  of  Gothic  temples,  should  supplant  the  flippant 
discourse  of  jaded  intriguers ;  — the  solemnly  resound- 
ing thunder  of  the  organ,  the  soft  and  sober  tones  of 
bassoons  and  viols,  the  mellow  harmony  of  human 
voices,  proceeding  in  angelic  hallelujahs  from  the 


MUERTE    EN    GARROTE    VIL.  81 

unseen  recesses  of  the  chantry,  should  replace  the  smirk- 
ing gallope  and  the  mazurka;  when  the  gaudy  mirrors, 
reflecting  the  already  offensive  glare  of  so  many  lus- 
tres, should  be  replaced  hy  a  sober  twilight,  revealing 
and  mellowing  a  crucifixion  of  Espanoleto,  or  a  Santa 
Madre  of  Murillo ;  when  the  dark  daughters  of  Spain 
should  give  over  their  parti-colored  tinsel,  their  mere- 
tricious smiles,  and  heartless  gayety,  to  resume  the 
sober  mantilla  and  basquinia  in  which  they  first  won 
upon  my  boyish  heart,  and  which  so  harmonize  with 
the  habitual  expression  of  their  pale,  thoughtful,  and 
melancholy  countenances,  and  full  languid  eyes. 

The  next  morning  I  rose  weary,  feverish,  unrefresh- 
ed,  and  melancholy.  I  went  to  my  balcony  as  I  was 
wont,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  take  the  sun  instead  oi 
the  less  agreeable  heat  which  a  brasero  afforded,  look 
down  upon  the  ever  gay  and  animating  spectacle  pre- 
sented by  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  which  lay  before  me, 
and  exchange  my  morning's  salutation  with  an  old 
and  well-beloved  acquaintance,  whose  balcony  was 
beside  mine.  By  common  consent,  growing  out  of  a 
sympathy  of  tastes,  we  were  both  in  the  habit  of  com- 
ing forth  at  the  sound  of  the  music  of  one  of  the  regi- 
ments of  the  grenadiers  of  the  royal  guard,  on  its  way 
to  relieve  the  detachment  performing  duty  at  the 
palace.  After  the  platoon  had  turned  the  angle  of  the 
gate  of  the  Sun,  and  the  music  ceased  to  delight  us 
with  its  animating  strains,  we  were  wont  to  exchange 
the  usual  courtesies  of  the  land,  to  inquire  for  each 
other's  health,  how  each  had  rested,  and  to  recount  all 
the  adventures  that  had  been  crowded  into  the  interval 


82  MUER.TE    EN    GARROTE   VIL. 

since  the  last  meeting,  or,  in  default  of  other  subjects, 
to  criticise  whatever  might  be  curious  in  the  groups 
below. 

On  this  occasion,  my  attention  was  called  to  the 
tinkling  bell  of  a  member  of  the  Paz  y  Caridad,  who, 
in  a  solemn  voice,  was  inviting  all  charitable  souls  to 
join  in  interposing  with  such  humble  alms  as  they 
were  pleased  to  contribute,  to  smooth  the  parting 
hour,  and  redeem  from  purgatory,  by  means  of 
masses,  the  soul  of  the  unhappy  brother  whose  life 
was  that  day  to  be  required  of  him.  He  had  before 
him  a  square  box,  having  a  hole  to  receive  the  alms 
of  the  charitable,  surmounted  by  a  figure  of  the  cruci- 
fied Savior,  calculated  at  once  to  awaken  a  devotional 
feeling  in  the  bosom  of  the  Christian,  and  to  call  to 
mind  the  recollection  that  He,  like  ^he  unhappy  cri- 
minal who  was  that  day  to  expiate  his  offences,  had 
died — though  innocently  and  for  our  propitiation — 
the  death  of  a  felon. 

There  was,  then,  to  be  an  execution.  It  was  sure 
to  be  a  spectacle  full  of  horror,  and  painful  excite- 
ment ;  yet  I  determined  to  witness  it.  I  felt  sad  and 
melancholy,  and  yet,  by  a  strange  perversion,  I  was 
willing  to  feel  more  so.  With  the  customary  cho- 
colate and  omelette,  the  good  dame,  Dona  Lucretia, 
my  landlady,  brought  me  the  Diario.  I  turned  at 
once  to  see  what  was  said  about  the  execution. 
Among  the  orders  of  the  day,  was  the  following — 
"  Having  to  suffer  this  day,  at  eleven  in  the  morning, 
in  the  square  of  Cebada,  the  pain  of  death  on  the 
vile  garrote,  to  which  he  was  sentenced  by  the 


MDERTE    EN    GARROTE   VIL.  83 

military  commission  of  this  province,  Juan  Lopez 
Solorzano,  alias  the  Birdcatcher,  a  native  of  Las  Altas 
Torres,  in  La  Mancha,  thirty-eight  years  of  age, 
a  bachelor,  late  a  grenadier  of  the  disbanded  royalist 
volunteers  of  this  capital,  accused  of  having  been 
one  of  the  first  aggressors  in  the  rebellion  of  October 
last,  on  the  occasion  of  disarming  that  corps ;  to  aid 
in  this  execution,  a  detachment  of  the  Provincial 
Regiment  of  Granada,  and  another  of  the  Cuirassiers 
of  the  Royal  Guard,  will  repair  to  the  place  of 
execution  at  half  past  ten,  whilst  at  the  same  hour, 
another  detachment  of  the  aforesaid  regiment  of 
Granada,  and  of  the  Light  Horse  of  Madrid,  will 
report  to  the  Corregidor,  at  the  prison,  in  readiness 
to  guard  the  prisoner  to  the  scaffold,  leaving  a  cor 
poral's  guard  ^o  protect  the  body  after  justice  is 
consummated,  until  the  Paz  y  Caridad  shall  come  to 
withdraw  it." 

Such  was  the  succinct  and  sententious  information 
given  me  by  the  EHario.  I  learned,  in  addition, 
from  Dofia  Lucretia,  that  the  Pajarero,  or  Bird- 
catcher,  was  so  called,  because  he  had  for  some 
years  lived  by  selling  doves  and  singing  birds  in  the 
square  of  the  Holy  Cross.  He  had  been  a  turbulent, 
quarrelsome  fellow,  had  killed  a  number  of  persons 
at  various  times,  for  all  which  misdeeds  he  had 
found  protection  in  being  a  royalist  volunteer,  and 
a  regular  attendant  at  mass  and  the  confessional. 
In  the  late  disbanding  of  the  royalist  volunteers, 
those  janizaries  of  the  Spanish  hierarchy,  he  had 
taken  an  active  part  in  the  revolt,  killing  with  his 


64  MUERTE   EN    GARROTE    VIL. 

own  hand  one  of  the  partizans  of  the  queen,  in  the 
square  of  the  Angel.  During  fifty-three  days  he  had 
been  concealed  by  persons  friendly  to  the  old  order  of 
things ;  but  had  at  last  been  sold  by  some  mercenary 
Judas,  and  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  justice. 

It  had  chanced  that  I  had  attended  the  court- 
martial  on  the  day  of  his  trial,  and  I  was  not  a  little 
struck  with  the  peculiar  vein  of  eloquence,  in  which 
the  fiscal  devoted  him  to  damnation  ere  yet  he  had 
been  produced  before  the  court. — "Soon  will  this 
vile  assassin  present  himself  before  you.  The  tribu- 
nal will  then  see  his  detestable  soul  painted  in  his 
countenance,  and  will  need  no  other  evidence  to 
discover  the  atrocious  image  of  a  regicide."  Such, 
alike  under  despotism  and  in  the  hands  of  liberals, 
is  the  vindictive  character  of  Spanish  retribution. 
Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  just  to  add,  that  of 
seventy-three  royalists  condemned  to  death  for  a  revolt, 
with  the  alleged  intention  of  murdering  the  queen, 
the  Birdcatcher  was  alone  selected,  as  the  most 
infamous,  for  execution.  The  rest  were  taken  from 
prison  in  the  dead  of  the  succeeding  night,  and 
being  manacled,  were  marched  off  under  a  strong 
escort  for  Ceuta.  One  of  them,  in  an  excess  of 
despair,  dashed  his  brains  out  against  the  postern  of 
the  prison.  The  scene  in  the  neighborhood  was 
represented  to  me  as  having  been  most  deplorable  on 
the  following  morning.  The  news  of  the  departure 
of  these  prisoners  had  spread  to  the  obscure  barriers 
of  the  capital,  and  their  families  had  gathered  round 
in  an  agony  of  bereavement.  Mothers,  wives,  and 


MUERTE   EN   GARROTE    VIL.  86 

lovers,  tore  their  hair,  and  rent  the  air  with  shrieks, 
and  exclamations  "of  wo;  whilst  the  children,  thus 
suddenly  left  fatherless,  looked  on  with  a  dumb 
amazement — an  indistinct  sense  of  some  great  cala- 
mity—  scarcely  less  painful  and  heart-rending. 
There  were  fifty  wives  who  found  themselves  thus 
suddenly  reduced  to  hopeless  widowhood,  whilst 
more  than  twice  that  number  of  children  looked 
round,  and  saw  that  they  were  fatherless. 

Divesting  the  mind  of  all  fanaticism,  whether  in 
favor  of  liberty  or  despotism,  the  offences  of  these 
men  will  not  seem  so  equal  to  their  fate  as  to  close 
the  heart  against  every  sentiment  of  pity.  They  were 
victims  of  tneir  fidelity  to  an  order  of  things  which 
but  a  few  months  before  received  the  adhesion  of 
the  king,  the  court,  the  army,  was  acquiesced  in 
by  the  whole  nation,  and  still  had  the  sympathy 
of  a  vast  majority  of  the  Spanish  people.  Oh ! 
Americans!  whilst  you  pity  the  land  in  which 
liberty  is  unknown,  and  unappreciated,  learn  to  value 
the  blessings  which  you  enjoy,  and  cultivate  an  ever 
increasing  admiration  and  love  for  that  birthright  of 
freedom  which  has  been  bequeathed  to  you. 

I  took  my  way  through  the  gate  of  the  Sun  to  the 
noble  front  of  the  prison  of  the  court.  I  had  been 
permitted  to  visit  it  a  few  days  before,  by  means  of 
a  royal  order  furnished  me  by  Burgos,  the  then 
minister  of  Fomento.  On  that  occasion  the  Pajarero 
had  been  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  greatest  curiosity 
of  the  place.  My  readers  may  not  be  aware  that 
among  the  common  people  of  Spain,  villanous 


86  MUERTE   EN   GARROTE   VIL. 

distinction  of  any  sort,  as  that  of  a_  foot-pad,  or  mur 
derer,  always  entitles  the  possessor  to  a  species  of 
war-name;  thus,  El  Gato,  or  Cat,  was  the  formidable 
and  dreaded  appellation  of  a  Valencian  robber,  who 
flourished  a  few  years  since,  enacting  a  fearful 
tragedy  in  my  presence,  and  who  was  noted  for  the 
tiger-like  and  ferocious  certainty  with  which  he  was 
wont  to  pounce  upon  his  prey;  El  Cacaruco  was 
the  droll  cognomen  of  a  scarcely  less  distinguished 
worthy,  by  whom  I  had  once  been  most  courteously 
plundered  in  the  plains  of  La  Mancha ;  whilst  the 
famous  Jose  Maria,  was  graced  with  the  more  compli- 
mentary title — a  tribute,  at  once,  to  his  power  and 
his  magnanimity — of  el  Seflor  del  Campo. 

The  Pajarero  was  a  name  of  inferior  note.  When 
his  crimes  were  recounted  to  me,  I  felt  little  inclina- 
tion to  pity  him.  Whatever  sympathy  I  had  at  my 
command,  had  already  been  bestowed  upon  the  more 
pitiable  objects  which  met  my  sight  in  that  mansion 
of  despair.  There  seemed,  moreover,  to  be  a  sort 
of  poetical  justice  in  the  shutting  up  of  an  individual, 
who,  whilst  he  had  been  a  monster  to  his  fellow-men, 
had  passed  his  life  in  making  war  against  the  liberties 
of  those  winged  inhabitants  of  the  air — those  happy 
pensioners  of  nature — whose  capacities  barely  fit 
them  to  enjoy  liberty,  and  to  languish  and  pine  away 
when  deprived  of  it.  He  was,  besides,  a  most  ill- 
favored  and  ferocious  looking  man,  and  the  fiscal 
would  doubtless  have  been  borne  out  by  Lavater  in 
his  assertion,  that  it  was  easy  to  see  "  his  detestable 
soul  painted  in  his  countenance." 


MUERTE  EN    GARROTE   VIL  87 

The  prison  \vap  already  surrounded  by  a  dense 
crowd.  The  escort,  which  was  to  conduct  the 
prisoner  to  the  place  of  execution,  was  at  its  post, 
and  squadrons  of  cavalry  patrolled  the  streets  leading 
to  it,  keeping  the  way  open,  and  beating  back  the 
crowd  with  their  sabres,  and  trampling  upon  them 
with  the  armed  hoofs  of  their  horses,  much  in  the 
same  manner  as  if  the  government  had  still  been  that 
of  the  Absolute  King,  and  the  felon  a  false-hearted 
liberal.  It  was  expected,  and  earnestly  reported, 
that  there  was  to  be  a  popular  tumult  among  the 
serviles,  and  an  attempt  by  the  disbanded  volunteers 
to  rescue  their  heroic  comrade.  The  government, 
unwilling  to  betray  any  weakness,  did  not  however 
increase  the  detachment  of  troops  on  immediate  duty 
beyond  what  was  usual.  Yet  preparations  were 
secretly  made  to  pour  forth  an  overwhelming  military 
force.  The  troops  of  the  garrison  Avere  ready  to 
march  at  a  moment's  warning,  and  individual  cava- 
lirrs  of  the  body  guard,  in  their  gay  uniforms  and 
antique  casques,  were  seen  at  each  instant  spurring 
away  on  their  fleet  barbs,  of  the  caste  of  Aranjuez, 
to  carry  to  the  palace  the  anxiously  received  intima- 
tion that  all  was  still  well. 

T.  did  not  look  with  any  particular  complacency 
upon  these  military  youths,  notwithstanding  their 
gay  uniforms  and  handsome  persons.  To  be  sure, 
I  had  once  claimed  as  an  intimate  and  valued  friend, 
a  noble  young  Andalusian — noble  not  less  in  the 
real  than  in  the  accepted  sense — who  belonged  to 
this  corps.  In  general,  however,  they  are  held  i/ 


38  MUERTE   EN   GARROTE    VIL. 

little  estimation,  and  never  in  less  than  at  that 
moment ;  for,  but  a  few  days  before,  one  of  them  was 
detected,  by  the  waiter  of  a  restaurant,  in  the  act 
of  concealing  two  silver  forks  in  the  capacious 
receptacle  of  his  trooper's  boots,  which,  however 
constructed  with  other  motives,  were  not  iL-adapted 
to  the  purpose  of  quiet  and  unobserved  abstraction. 
After  all,  there  was  nothing  so  strange  in  this,  when 
one  looked  at  the  short  distance  from  the  top  of  the 
yawning  boot  to  the  tempting  cover,  a  fow  inches 
distant  on  the  edge  of  the  table;  reflecting,  at  the 
same  time,  that  the  youth  had  to  support  all  the 
dignity  of  a  nobility,  unsullied  on  four  sides  by  any 
mingling  of  base  blood,  upon  the  paltry  stipend  of 
twenty  dollars  a  month.  "  Viven  los  chocolateros!"  — 
cried  the  crowd,  as  they  spurred  along,  that  being 
the  vulgar  cognomen  applied  to  them,  because  choco- 
late is  the  only  refreshment  served  to  them  from  the 
royal  kitchen,  when  on  duty  at  the  palace. 

At  length  the  prisoner  was  brought  forth.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  penitential  robe  of  yellow ;  on  his 
head  was  a  cap  of  the  same  color,  faced  by  a  white- 
cross.  His  face  was  pale,  less  apparently  from  fear 
than  long  confinement,  for  his  frame  was  not  con- 
vulsed, and  his  hands  trembled  not  as  he  grasped 
before  him  a  paper  from  which  he  chanted  a  prayer, 
uttered  with  an  earnestness  proportioned  to  the  little 
time  that  remained  to  him  to  make  his  peace  with 
heaven,  and  the  conviction  that  he  was  about  to  enter 
on  an  eternity  of  bliss  or  misery,  the  common  belief 
of  a  land  in  which,  though  there  may  be  much  crime, 


MUERTE    EN   OARROTE    VIL.  89 

there  is  as  yet  but  little  infidelity.  A  dark  beard, 
which  was  of  many  days'  growth,  augmented  the 
ghastliness  of  his  expression. 

At  his  side  was  a  friar  of  the  order  of  Mercy,  in 
a  white  habit^and  a  shaven  crown,  who  held  before 
the  unhappy  man  a  crucifix,  bearing  an  image  of 
the  Savior,  through  whose  intercession  he  might 
yet,  by  repentance,  be  saved.  With  one  arm  the 
holy  man  embraced  the  prisoner,  whispering  in  his 
ear  words  of  consolation  and  comfort,  and  accompa- 
nying him  as  he  faltered  in  his  prayers.  He  was 
seated  on  a  white  ass,  his  legs  bound  below ;  and  the 
patient  unconsciousness  of  the  docile  animal  of  the 
errand  on  which  it  was  going,  contrasted  singularly 
with  the  interest  and  irresistible  sympathy,  which  all 
there  felt  in  the  fate  of  a  fellow  man,  about  to  enter 
on  the  unknown  regions  of  eternity. 

The  brotherhood  of  Peace  and  Charity,  each  mem- 
ber bearing  a  torch,  gathered  closely  around  the 
victim,  whom,  from  a  sentiment  of  humanity,  and  in 
fulfilment  of  their  solemn  vow,  they  had  comforted 
with  their  society  and  aided  with  their  prayers ;  for 
his  sake  they  had  become  mendicants  through  the 
public  streets,  collecting  sufficient  alms  from  the 
charitable  to  supply  with  comfort  and  decency  the 
last  wants  of  nature ;  and,  when  justice  should  have 
wreaked  its  necessary  vengeance  upon  his  body, 
they  were  to  withdraw  it  from  its  place  of  ignomi- 
nious exposure,  consign  it  with  careful  decency 
to  the  tomb,  and  offer  prayers  and  masses  for  the 
soul  which  had  taken  its  flight. 


90  MUERTE   EN   GARROTE   VIL. 

So  soon  as  all  had  reached  the  street,  the  soldiers  ga- 
thered round,  their  serried  bayonets  seeming  to  shut 
out  all  hope  of  rescue,  and  the  muffled  drum  beating  a 
monotonous  and  mournful  measure,  the  procession  set 
forward  to  the  scene  of  death.  The  singular  combina- 
tion of  this  group — the  criminal,  the  ass,  the  cowled 
friar  in  his  white  robe,  the  torch-bearing  brothers  of  the 
Paz  y  Caridad,  the  stern  and  mustachioed  warriors  who 
guarded  the  law's  victim,  offered  to  the  eye  a  singular 
spectacle,  whilst  the  chanting  of  the  criminal  and  of 
the  compassionating  spirits  who  joined  in  his  prayers, 
mingling  strangely  with  the  hoarse  drum,  and  the 
measured  tramp  of  the  soldiers,  bringing  nearer  at 
every  footfall  the  moment  of  the  catastrophe — all  tended 
to  impress  the  beholder  with  a  gloomy  and  terrible 
interest. 

It  was  expected,  that  if  there  were  any  riot  or 
attempt  at  rescue,  it  would  take  place  in  the  street  of 
Toledo,  before  the  portal  of  the  Jesuits' s  Church  of 
San  Isidro.  Not  many  weeks  later,  indeed,  an  insur- 
rection did  occur  there.  The  population  of  the 
adjoining  quarter  broke  forth  into  mutiny  and  rebel- 
lion ;  liberals  and  royalists  joined  in  deadly  conflict, 
churchmen  and  friars  were  immolated  in  the  streets, 
and  the  pavement  was  strewed  with  corpses,  and 
crimsoned  with  Spanish  blood,  shed  by  the  hands  of 
Spaniards.  But  the  spirit  of  rebellion  so  lately 
repressed,  was  not  yet  ripe  for  a  new  explosion.  San 
Isidro  was  passed  without  commotion  of  any  sort, 
and  the  procession  at  length  reached  the  Plaza.  The 
ordinary  avocations,  of  which  it  is  the  daily  scene, 


MUERTE    EN   GARROTE    VIL.  91 

had  ceased.  It  was  filled  with  a  crowd  of  curious 
spectators.  Cloaked  men,  and  women  in  mantillas, 
as  if  arrayed  for  mass,  occupied  the  whole  square, 
whilst  the  sheds  and  the  gratings  of  the  surrounding 
windows  were  covered  with  clambering  and  ambi- 
tious urchins,  each  anxious  to  contemplate,  from  the 
highest  elevation,  the  scene  which  so  great  a  crowd 
had  collected  to  behold.  The  balconies  were  filled 
with  well-dressed  people,  and  from  not  a  few,  beauty, — 
hardened  to  painful  spectacles  by  the  tortures  of  the 
arena,  —  was  seen  to  gaze  with  curious  earnestness. 

At  one  of  the  balconies  I  noticed  the  towering  and 
military  figure  of  the  brave  colonel  of  the  Madrid 
Light  Horse,  to  whom  I  had  the  honor  of  being 
known.  I  entered  the  house,  and,  presenting  myself 
at  the  door  of  the  no  less  doughty  countryman  of  the 
doughty  Dugald  Dalgetty,  was  received  most  cor- 
dially, and  welcomed  to  a  station  in  his  balcony. 
I  was  at  once  absorbed  by  the  painful  interest  which 
attracted  my  attention  to  the  person  of  the  culprit. 
The  colonel,  on  the  contrary,  Avas  filled  with  delight, 
at  the  spirited  manner  in  which  his  horsemen  kept 
the  way  open ;  beating  back  the  more  pressing  intru- 
ders, by  frequent  and  forceful  blows  with  the  flat  of 
their  long  Toledo  sabres,  and  reining  their  steeds 
most  unceremoniously  backward  upon  them.  The 
colonel  was  a  fierce  liberal.  He  was  delighted  with 
the  way  in  which  his  brave  fellows  routed  the  rabble 
mob,  and,  being  armed  from  cap  to  rowel,  would 
doubtless  have  been  delighted  to  have  an  opportunity, 
as  indeed  he  soon  afterwards  had,  ot  heading  his 


92  MUERTE    EN    GARROTE   VIL. 

squadron,  who  were  drawn  up  in  readiness  in  the 
neighboring  barrack,  and  riding  down  all  opposition. 

The  instrument  of  execution  was  different  from 
what  I  had  been  accustomed  to  see  in  Spain.  It  was 
the  garrote,  which  the  liberals,  actuated  by  the  spirit 
of  improvement,  exercising  itself  first  as  in  revolu- 
tionary France,  in  a  more  ingenious  method  of  putting 
people  to  death,  had  substituted  for  the  gallows. 
The  form  of  it  was  very  simple.  A  single  upright 
post  was  planted  in  the  ground,  having  attached  to  it 
an  iron  collar,  large  enough  to  receive  the  neck  of 
the  culprit,  but  capable  of  being  suddenly  tightened 
to  much  smaller  dimensions,  by  means  of  a  screw 
which  played  against  the  back  of  the  post,  and  had 
a  very  open  spiral  thread.  A  short  elbow  projected 
at  right  angles  from  the  upright  post,  for  the  criminal 
to  sit  on,  the  screw  being  attached  to  the  post  at  a 
distance  above,  suited  to  the  height  of  his  body. 

When  the  procession  had  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the 
gallows,  the  Birdcatcher  was  unbound  and  removed 
from  the  ass,  and  seated  upon  the  projecting  elbow  of 
the  garrote,  which  looked  towards  the  east.  His 
legs  were  again  bound  securely  to  the  post  on  which 
he  was  seated,  and  his  arms  and  body  to  the  upright 
timber  at  his  back.  Here  he  made  his  last  confession 
at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold.  The  friar  chanted  the 
prayers  which  the  Church  has  set  apart  for  the 
closing  scene  of  life's  latest  hour.  The  criminal 
repeated  his  responses  fervently  and  audibly.  He 
was  now  convinced  that  there  was  to  be  no  reprieve 
and  no  rescue.  Each  moment  was  more  precious 


MUERTE    EN   GARROTE   VIL.  93 

to  the  salvation  of  his  soul  than  worlds  of  treasure. 
He  remembered  that  the  penitent  thief  had  been 
forgiven  at  his  latest  hour. — Why  might  he  not  hope, 
being  also  penitent,  to  claim  that  precious  promise  — 
"  To-day  shalt  thou  be  with  me  in  Paradise  ?" 

The  friar  whispered  words  of  consolation.  He 
pronounced  the  promise  of  absolution,  and  covering 
the  unhappy  man  with  the  folds  of  his  ample  robe, 
thereby  signified  that  he  was  a  pardoned  because  a 
repentant  sinner,  and  as  such  admitted  into  the  bosom 
of  the  Church.  The  scene  at  this  moment  was  one  of 
awful  interest.  The  eyes  of  that  vast  crowd,  filling 
the  square,  and  clustering  on  gratings,  balconies,  and 
house-tops,  were  fixed  with  intensely  excited  gaze  on 
the  one  object  of  attention.  The  battalion  of  infantry 
formed  an  impenetrable  phalanx  around  the  scaffold. 
Behind  it,  mounted  on  powerful  coal  black  horses,  a 
squadron  of  cuirassiers,  with  drawn  sabres,  and  clad 
in  panoply  of  steel,  were  drawn  up  ready  for  instant 
action,  yet  as  motionless  as  death.  The  glorious  sun 
of  a  Castilian  heaven,  shining  through  an  atmosphere 
yet  more  brilliant  and  unclouded  than  our  own,  was 
sent  back  in  bright  reflection  from  cuirasses  embla- 
zoned with  its  own  gorgeous  image,  glancing  from 
antique  casques,  and  flickering  round  the  points  of 
sabres  and  bayonets. 

Still  for  a  moment  the  man  of  God  covered,  with 
his  garb  of  sanctity,  the  figure  of  the  criminal.  And 
now  it  is  withdrawn,  and  the  executioner  with  dex- 
trous art  quickly  and  stealthily  adjusts  the  iron  collar 
to  the  neck  of  his  victim.  A  hand  is  on  either  end  of 


91  MUERTE   EN    GARROTE   VIL. 

the  powerful  lever  which  works  the  tightening  screw. 
Life  has  reached  its  extremest  limit,  time  is  dropping 
his  last  sand ;  ere  yet  it  is  quite  fallen,  one  prayer  of 
supplication  is  uttered  for  mercy  in  that  eternity 
which  begins.  Quick  as  lightning  the  motion  is 
given  to  the  fatal  lever;  a  momentary  convulsion 
agitates  his  frame,  and  horribly  distorts  his  counte- 
nance, and  the  sinner  is  with  his  God.  The  bell  of 
the  neighboring  church  tolls  a  mournful  requiem 
from  the  top  of  its  tower ;  lips  are  seen  to  move  in 
muttered  prayer  to  speed  the  parting  soul,  and  ten 
thousand  breasts  are  signed  together  with  the  cross  of 
reconciliation.  A  fleet  horseman  darts  away  at  a 
gallop  to  announce  to  the  alarmed  inmates  of  the 
palace,  that  justice  has  not  been  robbed  of  its  victim, 
and  that  its  consummation  is  complete. 

Thus  ignominously  died  Solorzano,  surnamed  El 
Pajarero.  His  sins  to  his  fellow  men  upon  earth 
were  expiated ;  let  us  hope  that  he  may  find  mercy  in 
heaven.  Peace  to  his  soul ! 


THE    RESCUE. 


Fortune,  or  rather  the  good  foresight  of  Anne  Burras,  at  length  brought 
them  to  a  little  basin,  sunk  a  few  feet  into  the  ground,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  bubbled  a  clear  spring,  almost  the  only  one  in  that  sandy  region. 
Here,  Fenton,  who  led  the  van,  approaching  with  the  silent  caution  of  a 
cat,  discovered  his  little  lost  sheep.  The  Indians  had  kindled  a  fire  to 
cook  a  piece  of  veniaon,  and  sat  quietly  smoking  their  long  pipes. 

Just  as  they  were  taking  aim,  the  boy  passed  suddenly  between  them 
and  the  Indians.  Foster  shuddered,  and  dropped  the  muzzle  of  his  piece. 
Again  he  raised  his  deadly  rifle,  and  again,  just  at  the  actual  moment,  the 
boy  glided  between  the  savages  and  death.— Old  Times  in  the  new  World. 

J.  K.  PAULDING. 


THERE  was  a  fountain  in  the  wilderness, 
A  small  lone  basin,  undefiled  and  bright, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  forest  king-, 
The  immemorial  oak  —  whose  giant  form, 
With  gnarled  trunk,  and  tortuous  branches  old, 
And  wreathed  canopy  of  moss  and  vines, 
Filled  the  transparent  mirror.     From  its  depth 
Of  limpid  blackness  leaped  the  living  spring, 
A  gush  of  silvery  gems,  that  rose  and  burst, 
Studding,  but  ruffling  not,  its  glassy  sheen. 

It  was  the  height  and  hush  of  summer  noon — 
There  was  no  warbling  in  the  air,  nor  hum 
Of  bird  or  bee,  —  the  very  breeze  was  dead, 
That  evermore  amid  the  vocal  leaves 
Is  blithe  and  musical,  — the  brooklet's  flow 
Through  the  dank  herbs  was  voiceless,  — and  the  spolJ 


96  THE   RESCUE 

Of  silence  brooded,  like  a  spirit's  wing, 
O'er  the  pure  fountain  and  the  giant  tree. 

Worn  with  the  heat,  the  burthen,  and  the  toil, 
They  rested  them  beside  the  lucent  marge, 
The  maiden  and  her  captors. — Stern  and  still 
The  tawny  hunters  sate,  — the  thin  blue  smoke 
Upcurling  from  the  tube,  that  steeped  their  souls 
In  opiate  dreams  of  apathy,  —  the  glare 
Of  the  red  firelight  flashing  broad  and  high 
On  their  impassive  features,  shaven  brows, 
And  scalp-locks  decked  with  the  war-eagle's  plume. 
Beside  them,  yet  aloof,  their  delicate  prize, 
The  forest  damsel  lay — the  forest  flower, 
Untimely  severed  from  its  parent  stem, 
Blighted  yet  beautiful.     Her  fair  young  head 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  her  pale  cheek  wet  with  wo, 
And  those  sweet  limbs,  that  wont  to  fix  all  eyes, 
Wounded  and  weary !  Yet  her  heart  was  strong 
In  glorious  confidence ;  her  calm  clear  eye 
Soared  upward ;  and,  although  the  lips  were  mute 
Heart-orisons  arose,  —  more  fragrant  far 
Than  vapory  perfumes,  —  sweeter  than  the  peal 
Of  choral  voices,  —  when  some  cloistered  pile 
Thrills  to  the  organ's  diapason  deep 
In  pomp  sublime  of  regal  gratitude. 
And  he,  the  seedling  gem,  that  nestled  there 
In  that  pure  bosom  —  never  more,  perchance, 
Oh  !  never  more  —  to  glad  a  parent's  soul 
With  beaming  smiles  and  sportive  innocence.  — 
No!  they  were  not  deserted  !  —  Hagar  found 


THE   RESCUE.  97 

In  the  salt  wilderness  a  living  well  I 

And  Hezekiah  saw,  at  dawn  of  day, 

The  shouting  myriads  of  Sennacherib 

Stretched  —  horse  and  rider  —  on  the  bloodless  plain 

By  angel-swords  of  pestilence  divine !  — 

Yea !  on  the  cursed  tree  the  perishing  thief, 

At  the  tenth  hour,  received  the  word  of  grace. 

When  hope  itself  was  hopeless  I  — Who  believes 

Shall  never  be  forsaken  —  never  fall !  — 

She  heard  them  rustling  in  the  tufted  brake  — 
The  snapping  boughs  beneath  their  cat-like  tread — 
The  leaves  that  shivered,  though  the  clouds  aloft 
Hung   motionless,    betrayed    them !  —  They    were 

nigh  — 

Her  friends — her  rescuers  I  —  She  did  not  spring 
In  frantic  joy  to  meet  them !  — Eye  —  hand  —  tongue, 
With  more  than  Roman  hardihood  of  heart. 
Were  still  and  silent.     Yet  she  marked  the  range 
Of  the  bright  rifles,  and  she  dragged  him  down,  — 
Down  to  her  bosom  —  in  the  living  chain 
Of  her  white  arms,  that  trembled  not,  spell-bound 
By  agonizing  hope  more  keen  than  fear. 

Rang  the  report !  —  The  stream  of  vivid  fire 
Swept  o'er  her,  and  the  bullets  hurtled  near, 
Fearfully  near,  yet  harmless.  —  She  is  free 
Clasped  in  a  father's,  in  a  lover's,  arms !  — 
And  they,  their  brief  career  of  conquest  run, 
The  red  men  sleep,  no  more  the  yell  to  raise 
Of  fiendish  war,  or  light  the  pipe  of  peace.  H. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRE. 

BT  THB  AUTHOR  OP  "  ATAULNTIS,"  "  THE  YBMA8SBB,"  &O. 


"Sweet  accord,— 

The  stars,  and  whispers  of  the  air,  that  swells 
Along  the  waters.    'Tis  a  spirit  time, 
And  harmony  its  language.    Hear  its  strain, 
As  of  old  voices,  when  the  crowding  hills 
Leaned  forward,  with  beguiled  ear,  to  catch 
The  fitful  murmur,  and,  with  pliant  mood, 
Requited  it  in  echoes,  softer  far, 
And,  to  the  ear,  as  sweet" 


I. 

CALM,  beautiful,  the  night — 

Sweetly  the  silvery  light 
Strews  its  gay  gleams  along  the  slumbering  sea; 

While  roving  far  and  near, 

On  fitful  wing,  the  air 
Brings  to  the  sense  a  wild  strange  melody. 

II. 

And  silent  is  the  crowd, 
The  voices,  vexed  and  loud, 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRE.          99 

That  had  been  death  to  these  sweet  spells  around — 

Oh,  let  us  seek  yon  beach, 

Where,  full  of  solemn  speech, 
The  billows  wake  our  thoughts  to  themes  profound. 

HI. 

Night  is  Thought's  minister, 

And  we,  who  rove  with  her, 
Err  not  to  seek  her  now  in  scene  so  bright  — 

Scene  that  too  soon  departs, 

Yet  meet  for  gentle  hearts, 

And,  like  the  truth  they  pledged,  lovely  in  Heaven's 
own  sight. 

IV. 

'Twas  in  such  hour  as  this, 

That  roused  to  heaven-wrought  bliss, 
The  ancient  bard's  quick  spirit  moved  the  lyre; 

And,  harmonizing  earth, 

Then  Music  sprang  to  birth, 
And  claimed,  so  sweet  her  form,  a  God  to  be  her  sire 

V. 

Then  the  wild  man  grew  tame, 

And  from  the  hill-tops  came 
The  shaggy-mantled  shepherd  with  his  flocks, — 

And,  as  the  minstrel  sung, 

Old  Fable  found  his  tongue, 
And  raised  a  glittering  form  on  all  hia  rocks. 


100  THE  PRAYER  OP  THE  LYRE. 

VI. 

Is  there  no  hope  again, 

For  that  high-chanted  strain, 

That  streamed  in  beauty  then  o'er  mount  and  valley 
wide; 

When  from  each  hill  and  dell, 

Down  brought  by  Minstrel  spell, 
Bounding,  the  Muses  came,  in  joy  from  every  side. 

VII. 

When,  taught  by  spirit's  choice, 
Each  forest-thronging  voice 

Made  music  of  its  own  for  thousand  listening  ears  j 
When  every  flower  and  leaf 
Had  its  own  joy  and  grief, 

And  wings   descending  came   from  the  less-gifted 
spheres. 

VIII. 

Shall  the  time  never  more 

The  old  sweet  song  restore, 
That  made  the  stern  heart  gentle ;  and  to  all, 

The  vicious  as  the  good, 

The  kind  of  heart  or  rude, 
Brought  spells  that  swayed  each  soul  in  sweetest  thrall. 

IX. 

The  sacred  groves  that  then 
Showed  spirit  forms  to  men, 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRB.         101 

And  crowned  high  hopes,  and  led  to  each  most  lofty 
shrine, — 

The  oracles  that  wore 

Rich  robes  of  mystic  lore, 
And  taught,  if  not  a  faith,  at  least  a  song,  divine,  — 

X. 

Still  silent  —  will  they  keep 

In  a  cold  deathlike  sleep, 
Nor  minister  to  man,  nor  soothe  him,  as  of  old, — 

Winning  him  from  his  stye, 

To  immortality, 
Making  each  feeling  true,  making  each  virtue  bold,— 

XL 

Oh,  will  they  not  descend, 

Sweet  spirits,  to  befriend, 

Bring  back  the  ancient  Muse,  bring  back  the  olden 
Lyre, 

Teach  us  the  holier  good, 

Of  that  more  pliant  mood, 
When  Self  untutored  came  to  light  affection's  fire, — 

XII. 

When — yet  untaught  to  build, 

In  some  more  favored  field, 
His  cheerless  cabin  far  from  where  the  rest  abode, — 

He  had  no  thought  so  free, 

But  his  heart  yearned  to  be 
Bowed  down,  with  all  his  tribe,  to  each  domestic  God? 


108  THE   PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRE. 

XIII. 

Still  keeps  the  sky  as  fair, 

The  pleasant  Moon  still  there, 
And  the  winds  whisper  still,  as  if  upon  them  borne 

Spirits  came  still  to  earth, 

Happy,  as  at  its  birth, 
To  rove  its  shadowy  walks,  now  crowded  and  forlorn. 

XIV. 

'Tis  man  alone  is  changed  — 

The  shepherd — he  that  ranged 
O'er  the  wild  hills,  a  giant  in  the  sun — 

His  soul  and  eye  aloft, 

His  bosom  strong,  but  soft, 
With  spirit,  that  fresh  joy  from  each  new  season  won. — 

XV. 

Look  on  him  now,  the  slave  ! 

Since  that  sad  knowledge  gave 
The  restless  thirst  that  mocks  at  happy  quietude ; 

The  innocent  joy  no  more, 

That  the  old  forests  wore, 

Nor  yet  the  charm  of  song,  may  soothe  his  sleepless 
mood. 

XVI. 

Power's  proud  consciousness,  — 
How  should  it  ever  bless, 


THE  PRAYER  OP  THE  LYRE.  103 

When  still  it  prompts  a  dark  and  sleepless  strife, — 

A  sleepless  strife  to  sway, 

And  bear  that  spoil  away, 
Had  been  the  common  stock  in  his  old  shepherd  life. 

XVII. 

Ah,  me !  would  time  restore 

The  ancient  thirst,  the  lore, 
That  taught  sweet  dreams,  kind  charities  and  love, 

Soothing  the  spirit's  pride, 

Bidding  the  heart  confide, 
Lifting  the  hope  until  its  eye  grew  fixed  above. 

XVIII. 

Once,  once  again,  the  song, 
That  stayed  the  arm  of  wrong, — 
Once  more  the  sacred  strain  that  charmed  the  shep- 
herds rude ; 

Send  it,  sweet  spirits  ye, 
Who  lift  man's  destiny, — 
Once  more,  oh,  let  it  bless  our  solitude. 

XIX. 

Teach  us  that  strife  is  wo, 
The  love  of  lucre  low, 
And  but  high  hopes  and  thoughts  are  worthy  in  our 

aim; 

Teach  us  that  love  alone, 
Pure  love,  long  heavenward  flown, 
Can  bring  us  that  sweet  happiness  we  claim. 


101  THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  LYRE. 

XX. 

And  with  that  sacred  lore, 

The  shepherd  loved,  once  more 
Arouse  the  frolic  beat  of  the  hope-licensed  heart, — 

When  gathering  in  the  grove, 

Young  maidens  sung  of  love, 
And  no  cold  bigot  came  to  chide  the  minstrel's  art. 

XXL 

Then  were  these  teachers  still — 

This  moon,  yon  quiet  hill, 

The  sea,  and  more  than  all,  the  swelling  breeze  that 
brings 

With  every  hour  like  this 

A  dream  of  life  and  bliss, 
With  healing  to  the  sad  heart  on  its  wings.  — 

XXII. 

Then  would  the  chaunted  strain, 
Of  the  old  Bard  again, 

Bring  cheerful  thoughts  once  more  around  the  even- 
ing fire ; 

Then  would  the  pure  and  young, 
Such  as  the  minstrel  sung, 

Once  more  rejoice  to  hear,  the  young  earth's  holy 
lyre. 


THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP  ALLEN  PRBSO»T. 


AGNES  CALLENDER  returned  from  her  evening 
walk  with  a  glow  upon  her  cheek,  not  the  effect  of 
exercise,  for  her  step  was  languid — but  of  some 
emotion,  proofs  of  which  were  still  visible  in  the 
tears  that  she  wiped  from  her  eyes,  as  she  entered 
her  father's  door.  She  had  been  to  visit  the  grave 
of  her  mother,  who  died  two  months  before.  When 
that  event  happened,  she  felt  herself  suddenly  reduced 
to  an  appalling  emergency,  for  which  the  previous 
circumstances  of  her  life,  and,  as  she  thought,  her 
peculiar  character,  entirely  unfitted  her.  —  The  young 
vine,  torn  from  its  prop,  is  not  more  helpless ;  nor  the 
shoot,  severed  from  the  parent  stem,  more  effectually 
deprived  of  the  source  and  nutriment  of  its  young 
life.  To  live  without  my  mother !  she  would  exclaim 
in  bitterness  of  spirit — O  that  I  should  have  been 
brought  to  this ! 

Being  naturally  timid,  sensitive,  and  reserved,  she 
was  of  course  distrustful  of  herself — and  her  mother 
was  the  only  friend  to  whom  she  ever  poured  out  a 
full  heart — the  only  one  on  whose  protection  and 
encouragement  she  constantly  relied,  or  with  whom 
she  shared  her  secret  soul. 


106  THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

Mr.  Callender,  although  what  is  commonly  called 
a  good-hearted  man,  was  severe  in  his  judgments  of 
others — even  of  those  who,  being  nearly  allied  to  him, 
might  suppose  themselves,  on  that  account,  entitled  to 
a  peculiar  degree  of  indulgence.  Having  no  tolera- 
tion, even  of  slight  imperfections,  he  was,  of  course, 
more  apt  to  blame,  than  to  praise,  even  the  praise- 
worthy. He  was,  in  other  respects,  an  eccentric 
man,  a  term  which,  when  predicated  upon  the  master 
of  a  family,  implies  such  a  deviation  from  the  customs 
and  habits  that  ordinarily  make  part  of  the  domestic 
economy,  as  seriously  to  interfere  with  the  conve- 
nience and  comfort  of  all  its  members. 

Agnes  had  a  strong  sentiment  of  filial  duty,  in 
which  she  had  been  carefully  trained  by  her  mother — 
but  with  that,  there  mingled  another,  which  should 
be  forever  excluded  from  the  relation  of  parent  and 
child — it  was  fear.  Her  father  loved  and  respected 
her — but  he  little  knew  what  treasures  of  love, 
locked  up  in  her  heart,  might  have  been  at  his 
disposal,  had  not  his  manners  kept  her  at  such  a 
distance  from  him. 

At  the  time  I  have  spoken  of,  she  passed  hastily 
by  him,  as  he  stood  in  the  door,  and  was  going  up 
stairs. 

"  Here,  Agnes,"  said  he,  "  stay  a  moment.  I  am 
surprised  at  this  habit  you  have  fallen  into  of  late 
walks,  which  are  very  improper  for  a  young  lady. 
Besides,  do  you  know,  I  have  taken  my  tea  alone, 
and  that  stupid  Phebe  gave  me  green  tea  — for  which 
I  shall  pass  a  sleepless  night — a  favor  I  must  thank 


THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE.  107 

you  for. — It  is  strange  that  young  people  will  be 
always  about  something  else,  rather  than  their  own 
proper  duties  at  home." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Papa,"  replied  Agnes ;  "  I  gave 
Phebe  charge,  before  I  went  out,  to  go  and  see 
whether  Mr.  Stoddard  had  opened  a  new  chest  of 
black  tea — and  if  not,  to  get  some  more  of  the 
same  that  you  had  before.  —  I  did  not  think,  when  I 
went  away,  of  being  out  so  late." 

"Then  the  bread  is  poor  again — Miss  Agnes — 
too  close.  It  is  just  as  easy  to  have  fine  bread  as 
any  other,  and  it  is  a  pity  to  have  such  a  blessing  as 
good  bread  converted  into  a  curse  by  mere  want  of 
attention.  —  That's  all,  now — that's  the  whole  of  it — 
just  a  little  attention  would  save  all  this  trouble." 

Agnes  ventured  modestly  to  suggest,  that  Sally, 
the  cook,  was  much  more  practised  than  herself  in 
the  art  of  bread-making,  and  seldom  failed  of  entire) 
success. 

"  But  it  is  a  house-keeper's  business  to  see  that 
every  thing  is  done  well — there  is  no  difficulty  about 
it — none  at  all." — 

"  Papa,  shall  I  read  to  you  now,"  said  Agnes, 
wishing  to  change  the  subject.  — 

"  Yes,  child,  my  eyes  are  unusually  weak  to-nighl, 
and  there  is  an  article  upon  the  tariff  in  that  news- 
paper, which  I  should  like  to  hear  very  much." 

This  duty  poor  Agnes  performed  with  exemplary 
patience.  Her  manner  of  reading  was  one  thing 
with  which  he  seldom  found  fault. 

When  she  had  finished   he  thanked  her,   saying 


108  THE    VOUNG    DEVOTEE. 

that,  in  his  opinion,  there  were  very  few  young 
women  of  her  age,  who  would  have  sense  enough  to 
read,  upon  such  subjects,  and  attend  to  them  with  the 
interest  which  she  manifested.  She  could  not  dis- 
claim the  unmerited  praise;  because,  by  so  doingj 
she  must  necessarily  have  revealed  to  her  father,  a 
fact  which  she  preferred  carefully  to  conceal — viz., 
that  she  had  no  share  in  the  pleasure,  which  she  thus 
afforded  him. 

Agnes  was  one  of  those  persons  who  do  every 
thing  well  from  principle. — She  devoted  herself  to 
the  difficult  and  responsible  duties,  which  devolved 
upon  her  in  consequence  of  her  mother's  death,  with 
untiring  zeal  and  assiduity — and  to  have  satisfied  her 
father  would  have  been  to  her  a  sufficient  reward. — 
But  since  the  most  trifling  deficiency,  omission, 
irregularity,  or  imperfection,  in  the  details  of  her 
domestic  arrangements,  escaped  neither  his  observa- 
tion nor  his  censure — and  he  rarely  bestowed  any 
commendation — it  Avas  impossible  for  her  to  suspect, 
what  was  nevertheless  true — that,  in  his  secret  heart, 
he  regarded  her  as  one  of  the  best  daughters,  and 
most  accomplished  house-keepers,  that  a  widowed 
father  was  ever  blessed  with.  Many  a  time  has  she 
thought  within  herself — "Oh,  if  I  could  hear  again 
my  mother's  sweet  approving  tone!"  and  wept,  that 
it  was  for  ever  silenced. 

A  sweet  solace  always  awaited  Agnes  at  the  close 
of  the  day,  which  refreshed  her  after  it's  wearying 
cares,  and  imparted  to  her  slumber  a  tranquillity  of 
which  it  was  rarely  deprived.  She  had  a  little  sister, 


THE    YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  109 

Lucy,  only  four  years  of  age,  who  was  her  bedfellow, 
and  who,  without  giving  any  other  symptom  ot 
consciousness,  would  always  kiss  Agnes,  seeking  her 
lips  as  she  laid  down  by  her  side,  and  place  her 
hand  too  on  Agnes'  cheek,  pressed  closely  to  hers.  — 
Agnes  assumed  the  entire  charge  of  this  child  from 
the  moment  of  her  mother's  death — this  was  the  one 
indulgence — the  chief  pleasure  of  her  life. 

Mr.  Callender  had  a  degree  of  sensitiveness  upon 
the  subject  of  order  and  neatness,  which  Doctor  Rush 
would  probably  have  denominated  a  species  of 
insanity.  It  was  not  uncommon  for  him  to  throw 
out  upon  the  floor,  and  consign  anew  to  the  wash-tub, 
a  whole  drawer-full  of  shirts  and  cravats,  on  account 
of  a  wrinkle  in  one,  a  spot  upon  another,  a  slight 
shade  of  yellow  on  a  third,  or  the  wrong  folding  of 
a  fourth.  An  accidental  soil  upon  the  table-cloth 
would  deprive  all  others  at  the  table,  if  not  himself, 
of  the  accustomed  meal;  — and  pet  as  she  was,  even 
with  him,  little  Lucy  was  occasionally  banished  from 
the  parlor  for  a  day,  because  her  frock  slipped  off  at 
the  shoulder. 

One  morning  he  took  from  a  bureau,  to  which  he 
had  access,  some  articles  of  dress  that  had  belonged 
to  his  wife,  which  he  intended  to  distribute  among 
her  friends.  —  After  arranging  them  upon  the  bed, 
he  called  in  Agnes  to  assist  him  in  their  appropria- 
tion. Not  being  at  all  aware  of  the  reason  of  the 
summons,  she  obeyed  it  with  her  usual  alacrity.  Her 
uniform  "  Yes,  Papa,"  was  heard  in  response,  and 
directly  she  was  in  his  room. 


110  THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

Her  light  step  was  suddenly  arrested  as  her  eye 
fell  upon  the  garments  spread  before  her — and,  then, 
by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  threw  herself  at  full 
length  upon  the  bed,  as  if  to  embrace  the  sacred 
relics,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Why,  my  daughter,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Callender,  in 
manifest  horror — "do  you  not  see  what  mischief  you 
are  doing  ?  Get  up,  directly." 

She  arose  instantly — but  her  agitation  increased, 
her  lips  trembled,  her  sobbing  became  convulsive, 
and  as  she  sank  into  a  chair,  her  knees  smote 
together.  Mr.  Callender  had  never  witnessed  any 
thing  of  the  kind  in  her  before — he  became  alarmed, 
and  rang  violently  for  assistance.  He  then  took  her 
up  and  laid  her  gently  on  the  same  bed  from  which 
he  had  so  rudely  ejected  her — loosened  her  clothes — 
administered  restoratives — and  when  he  found  her, 
by  degrees,  regaining  her  composure,  he  sat  down 
by  her  side,  and  soothingly  stroked  back  the  hair 
which  had  fallen  over  her  face.  * 

When  Agnes  looked  up  in  grateful  recognition  of 
this  kindness,  and  perceived  that  tears  were  stream- 
ing down  his  cheeks — she  drew  him  down  to  her 
and  kissed  him.  From  that  moment  much  of  the  re- 
serve, which  she  had  hitherto  felt  to  wards  him,  melted 
away,  and  there  was  a  softening  of  his  manners  to- 
wards her — a  careful  abstaining  from  what  might 
wound  or  grieve  her,  for  which  she  lifted  up  her  heart 
to  God  in  fervent  gratitude. 

Little  Lucy  was  the  pet  lamb — the  darling  of  the 
whole  family — and  notwithstanding  the  occasional 


THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE.  Ill 

rebuffs  which  she  received  from  her  father — she  was 
so  much  indulged  and  caressed  by  him — as  to  regard 
him  without  any  of  the  fear  that  he  usually  inspired. 
She  was  more  free  than  any  one  else  in  her  inter- 
course with  him,  and  this  very  circumstance,  without 
his  being  aware  of  it,  increased  his  fondness  for  her — 
and  her  influence  over  him — an  influence  often  ex- 
ercised in  softening  Agnes'  grievances. 

Mr.  Callender  was  fond  of  society,  and  practised 
unbounded  hospitality.  The  death  of  his  wife  check- 
ed, for  a  time,  his  habits  in  this  respect — and  Agnes 
was  not  called  upon  for  any  extraordinary  exercise  of 
her  household  skill,  until  she  had  had  the  experience 
of  some  months  in  perfecting  it.  Then,  when  some 
public  occasion  was  expected  to  draw  a  large  con- 
course of  strangers  to  the  town — her  father  signified 
to  her  that  on  a  certain  day  she  must  provide  a  dinner 
for  some  ten  or  twelve  gentlemen.  This  was  an 
event  in  her  life  which  filled  her  with  solicitude — for 
besides  the  responsibility  which  she  felt  in  regard  to 
the  dinner — the  idea  of  presiding  over  it  at  table,  was 
very  formidable. 

The  efforts  to  please  her  father,  however,  proved 
successful.  The  servants  were  all  exceedingly  at- 
tached to  her,  and  for  her  sake,  rather  than  his,  did 
their  best  on  the  occasion.  Nothing  was  too  much  or 
too  little  done — there  were  no  oily  gravies — every 
dish  was  very  nicely  served  up — not  a  knife  or  fork 
was  dropped  or  rattled  by  the  waiters — not  a  particle 
of  any  thing  spilled.  The  pastry  was  exquisitely 
white  and  flaky — the  sweetmeats  and  jellies  admira- 


112  THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE 

ble — the  apples  beautifully  polished — the  nuts  crack- 
ed in  the  most  approved  manner — the  order  of  the 
entertainment,  too,  was  perfect;  — in  short,  every  thing 
was  right,  and  Mr.  Callender  felt  proud  and  gratified. 

Agnes  began  to  breathe  more  freely  in  saying  to 
herself,  "It's  almost  over" — when  a  toast  was  pro- 
posed, which  her  father  said  must  be  pledged  in  his 
last  remaining  bottle  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  wine,  which 
he  valued  particularly. 

As  he  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips,  Agnes,  whose 
eye  met  his,  saw  that  something  was  wrong.  "  How's 
this,  my  daughter?"  said  he  somewhat  impatiently — 
"the  wine  is  not  pure — here's  some  mistake." 

The  poor  girl  felt  her  cheeks  crimson  all  over,  at 
an  appeal  which  drew  upon  her  the  attention  of  every 
one  present.  She  frankly  owned,  however,  that  the 
bottle  not  being  quite  full,  she  had  supplied  the  defi- 
ciency from  another,  whose  contents  were  exactly  si- 
milar in  color  and  appearance. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  such  a  novice, 
child"— he  replied. 

Mr.  Callender  was  particularly  sensitive  upon  the 
subject  of  his  wines,  and  Agnes  knew  that  this  single 
mistake  was  sufficient  to  mar,  in  his  eyes,  the  whole 
entertainment. 

One  of  the  gentlemen  present,  wishing  to  relieve 
her  evident  embarrassment,  politely  remarked,  that 
some  accident  of  the  kind  was  almost  necessary  to 
convince  them  that  there  had  not  been  magic  in  the 
preparation  of  such  an  entertainment  by  so  young  a 
housekeeper. 


THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  119 

Lucy  had  been  introduced  just  as  this  unlucky 
mistake  was  detected.  She  went  up  to  her  father,  and 
in  the  eagerness  to  get  his  attention,  and  beg  him  not  to 
make  "sister  blush,"  she  jostled  his  arm,  and  caused 
him  to  upset  his  glass — "O  never  mind,  Father," 
said  she,  "  you  will  have  less  to  drink,  now,  of  that 
bad  wine.  But  let  me  taste,  and  see  if  it  really  is 
spoiled." 

She  put  the  glass  to  her  lips,  and  smacked  them. 
"Why,  it  is  very  good,  1  am  sure,  Father;  I  don't 
believe  sister  could  spoil  any  thing  if  she  should  try." 

"  Unless  it  be  you,  perhaps,  Lucy." 

Her  vivacity  and  fondness  for  her  sister,  excited  a 
general  smile,  whose  contagion  infected  Mr.  Callender 
himself.  Her  voice  was  to  him  what  the  harp  of 
David  was  to  the  monarch  of  Israel. 

As  Lucy  passed  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  to  join 
Agnes,  she  was  arrested  by  a  young  gentleman  who 
sat  next  her,  and  who,  Agnes  told  her,  was  Mr. 
Linwood.  He  took  her  into  his  lap  and  kissed  her. 

"Has  not  my  sister  given  you  a  nice  dinner?"  — 
said  she — "  I  helped  some —  I  helped  rub  the  apples." 

"  And  who  rubbed  and  polished  your  cheeks  ?" 

"O,  sister  does  that — and  this  morning,  when  I 
held  some  of  the  red  apples  to  my  cheeks  to  see  which 
were  the  prettiest,  she  said  she  liked  my  cheeks  the 
best,  a  great  deal.  Isn't  that  queer  ?  I  guess  it  is 
because  she  can  kiss  them." 

"Kiss  them — can't  she  kiss  an  apple's  cheeks, 
too?" 


114  THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

"  Kiss  an  apple's  cheeks !  apples  were  not  made  to 
kiss." 

"  Why  not?  they  are  very  pretty." 

"  But  they  don't  know  any  thing — they  don't  love 
you." 

"  But  you  love  them." 

"Oh,  poh!  that's  not  her  kind  of  love — the  way 
1  love  an  apple,  is  not  the  way  I  love  sister." 

Agnes'  desire  to  stop  Lucy's  loquacity,  determined 
her  no  longer  to  deky  what  she  had  been  for  some 
time  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to — the  formidable 
retreat  from  table.  She  took  Lucy  by  the  hand  and 
rose  to  depart.  Mr.  Linwood,  seeing  her  extreme 
embarrassment,  thought  to  relieve  it  by  offering  his 
arm  to  conduct  her  to  the  door.  He  half  rose — then 
hesitated — as  if  doubtful  whether  he  might  not 
increase  rather  than  relieve  it — but  at  length  escorted 
her. 

It  was  then  that  she  perceived  the  cause  of  his 
hesitation  in  the  mal-formation  of  one  of  his  feet;  but 
this  discovery  did  not  destroy  the  agreeable  impres- 
sion she  had  previously  received  from  his  fine  coun- 
tenance, pleasing  manners,  and  evident  intelligence ; 
for,  in  spite  of  the  pre-occupation  of  her  mind,  he  had, 
during  dinner,  drawn  her  into  conversation. 

Mr.  Linwood  was  a  young  man  who  had  recently 
brought  letters  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Callender — for 
although  the  son  of  an  old  friend  and  class-mate — his 
father's  death,  which  occurred  when  he  was  quite 
young,  had  suspended  all  intercourse  between  the 
families. 


THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE.  116 

Nature,  in  bestowing  upon  him  the  richest  enaow- 
ments  of  mind,  and  a  good  degree  of  personal  beauty, 
had  denied  him  a  perfect  physical  conformation. 

When  such  a  misfortune  is  inflicted  upon  a  person 
whose  nature  is  sensitive — it  modifies,  in  some  way, 
his  character.  It  probably  made  Lord  Byron  a 
misanthrope.  Henry  Linwood,  on  the  contrary,  felt 
for  all  his  race  a  warm  and  kindly  sympathy,  which 
he  believed  could  never  be  fully  extended  towards 
him.  This  idea  made  him  neither  sour  nor  melan- 
choly, but  it  led  him  to  regard  himself  as,  in  some 
respects,  an  isolated  being — and  produced  a  subdued 
tone  of  feeling  incompatible  with  any  elation  of  spirits 
— though  he  had  too  much  of  true  Christian  philo- 
sophy ever  to  repine.  It  was  a  perpetual  trial, 
attended,  in  his  case,  with  those  purifying  effects 
which  rare  and  occasional  afflictions  are  sometimes 
observed  to  produce  upon  those  who  are  capable  of 
deriving  "  sweet  uses  from  adversity." 

Having  inherited  a  patrimony  sufficient  to  place 
him  above  the  necessity  of  consulting  his  pecuniary 
interests  rather  than  his  tastes,  he  determined,  after 
completing  the  course  and  term  of  study  necessary  to 
invest  him  with  the  prerogatives  of  a  professional 
man,  to  establish  himself  in  the  country.  He  was  a 
passionate  lover  of  nature,  and  had  a  more  intimate 
communion  with  her,  perhaps,  from  regarding  him- 
self as,  in  some  degree,  severed  from  man's  fellowship. 
It  is,  too,  in  the  circumscribed  society  of  a  country 
village,  that  exists  the  simplest  state  of  manners 
consistent  with  refinement — and  there  are  no  artifi- 


U6  THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

cial  observances  to  repress  the  full  glow  of  the  heart, 
that  he  fancied  he  should  bring  himself  into  nearer 
relation  with  those  among  whom  he  dwelt. 

He  became,  of  course,  a  frequent  visiter  at  Mr.  Cal- 
lender's,  who  cultivated  his  acquaintance,  not  only  for 
his  father's  sake,  but  because  he  found  him  a  most 
delightful  acquisition  to  his  somewhat  limited  circle. 
Agnes,  instead  of  being  less  disposed  to  make  herself 
agreeable  to  him  on  account  of  his  personal  blemish, 
was  stimulated  by  a  feeling  of  compassion,  to  do  all  in 
her  power  towards  his  entertainment,  whenever  he 
was  with  them.  She  was  thus  induced,  when  perhaps 
every  other  motive  would  have  failed,  to  throw  aside 
her  usual  reserve,  and  be,  what  some  of  her  friends 
would  have  pronounced  impossible,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, positively  sociable.  Virtuous  effort  in 
another's  behalf,  always  brings  a  reward — and  so  it 
proved  in  her  case.  Her  improvement  in  that  most 
desirable  art,  the  art  of  conversation,  was  rapid  and 
striking. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  Agnes'  character  gained  daily 
fresh  strength.  There  is  nothing  like  the  effect  of 
circumstances  which  impose  upon  young  persons  high 
and  responsible  duties,  in  developing  and  elevating 
the  character.  She  gradually  acquired  confidence  in 
herself,  which  relieved  her  of  much  of  the  suffering 
and  embarrassment  to  which  she  had  previously  been 
subjected.  By  degrees,  she  obtained  an  ascendency 
over  her  father's  mind ; — she  was  not  unfrequently  his 
counsellor, — and  he  felt  a  respect  for  her  which  often 
checked  his  impatience.  She  even  sometimes  ventured 


THE    YOUNG  DEVOTEE.  117 

gently  to  suggest  that  he  was  not  quite  reasonable,  and 
found  him  docile  to  reproof.  On  one  occasion,  when 
he  left  home,  quite  suddenly,  for  a  journey  which 
required  considerable  preparation,  and  she  was  oblig- 
ed to  pack  his  trunk  in  the  least  possible  time,  she 
accidentally  left  out  a  single  article  of  no  great  import- 
ance. He  did  not  fail,  upon  his  return,  to  mention 
this  omission.  "Why, Papa,"  said  she,  "if  that  was 
the  only  thing  you  missed,  I  wonder  you  do  not 
rather  commend  me,  considering  how  you  hurried 
me." 

"  True,  my  daughter,  you  are  right." 

There  was  much  speculation  among  Agnes'  ac- 
quaintance upon  the  wisdom  of  her  course.  If  she 
were  not  half  as  devoted  to  her  father,  was  the  general 
sentiment,  he  would  not  be  half  as  exacting.  Mr. 
Linwood,  who  being  a  constant  visiter  at  Mr.  Cal- 
lender's,  and  now  well  known  in  the  village,  was 
often  appealed  to  on  the  subject,  was  accustomed  to 
reply — that  in  his  opinion  the  best  rule,  and  one 
which  he  believed  governed  Miss  Callender  in  all 
things,  was  to  perform  in  the  most  thorough  and 
devoted  manner  whatever  duties  arose  out  of  one's 
peculiar  station. 

There  are  few  topics  of  conversation  in  a  village — 
and  of  course  Mr.  Linwood  was  frequently  discussed. 
The  young  ladies  thought  him  agreeable  and  gentle- 
manly, and  admitted  that  but  for  his  deformity — he 
would  be  a  great  favorite. 

"But  for  his  deformity,"  Agnes  would  sometimes 
repeat  to  herself — "how  can  that  have  any  other 


118  THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

effect,  than  to  heighten  the  interest  excited  by  his  fine 
character,  and  gifted  mind  ?" 

Yet  Agnes  was  not  in  love,  nor  did  she  belong  to 
the  class  of  young  ladies  most  apt  to  fall  in  love.  Life 
to  her  had  important  duties — noble  aims.  Devoted 
to  her  father  and  to  Lucy — and  pursuing,  diligently, 
the  course  of  literary  culture  and  self-improvement 
commenced  under  the  auspices  of  her  mother,  she  had 
not  the  need,  which  girls  of  seventeen  sometimes  feel, 
of  love,  as  a  pastime,  to  relieve  her  from  the  ennui  of 
a  vacant  mind. 

Had  such  a  sentiment  inspired  her  in  the  com- 
mencement of  her  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Linwood, 
she  never  would  have  so  far  overcome  her  natural 
reserve  in  her  intercourse  with  him — nor  would  he 
have  penetrated  the  veil  sufficiently  to  discover  what 
it  concealed. 

He  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  sex,  but  considered 
himself  as  doomed  to  celibacy — and  this  he  thought 
the  severest  privation  connected  with  his  peculiar 
misfortune.  When  he  perceived  that  Agnes  appeared 
more  animated  and  agreeable  in  his  society  than  in 
any  other, — when  he  found  her,  as  often  happened, 
refusing  to  dance  in  their  little  village  parties  that  she 
might  be  at  liberty  to  chat  with  him,  while  all  the  rest 
were  engaged  in  the  favorite  amusement  of  youth  — 
he  did  not  think  of  referring  her  kindness  to  any  other 
than  the  true  cause,  and  gratitude  and  admiration  Avere 
the  feelings  which  it  inspired. 

"  I  declare,"  said  Mr.  Callender,  as  he  came  in 
one  day  to  dinner,  "  a  few  such  fine  fellows  as  that 


THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE.  119 

Linwood,  would  create  a  new  state  of  things  in  a 
country  village  like  this.  I  met  him  this  morning, 
with  a  whole  troop  of  boys  at  his  heels,  going  in  search 
of  stones,  insects,  flowers,  any  thing  they  can  find  for 
his  cabinets,  or  his  herbarium.  There  is  not  one  ot 
them  who  would  not  rather  spend  a  holiday  in  his 
service  than  in  any  other  manner.  By  way  of  reward, 
he  calls  them  all  into  his  office  every  now  and  then 
and  entertains  them  with  experiments,  or  in  familiar 
lectures.  They  will  become  quite  a  set  of  philosophers. 
In  two  years  time  they  will  know  the  name  and 
history  of  every  specimen  belonging  to  three  depart- 
ments of  natural  history — that  can  be  found  in  this 
vicinity.  Nature  did  well  to  disqualify  such  a  man 
for  marriage,  that  he  might  devote  himself  to  his  race." 

"  But  how  is  it,  that  his  profession  does  not  absorb 
him !  I  have  heard  the  law  termed  a  mistress  who 
would  tolerate  no  rival." 

"  I  don't  know —  he  must  have  uncommon  industry. 
When  I  found  that  his  new  office  was  to  be  divided 
into  two  apartments — one  properly  his  office,  and  the 
other  fitted  up  as  a  mineralogical  and  entomological 
cabinet,  and  furnished  too,  with  some  chemical  appa- 
ratus, I  thought  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  that 
he  should  ever  become  distinguished  in  his  profes- 
sion— and  yet  he  is  rising  very  fast. 

"  Sister,"  said  Lucy,  as  she  finished  her  afternoon 
lessons,  "  there  is  one  reason  why  I  should  rather  go 
to  the  district  school  than  to  yours,  because,  then,  you 
know,  Mr.  Linwood  might  perhaps  take  me,  with  the 
other  children,  to  get  specimens  for  his  cabinets.  1 


120  THE   YOUNG    DLVOTEK. 

will  just  go  out  in  the  garden,  and  see  if  I  can't  find 
a  pretty  bug  for  him  now." 

Just  as  she  was  returning  with  that  familiar  and 
favorite  acquaintance  of  all  children,  a  lady-bird,  in 
her  hand,  Mr.  Linwood  came  in.  "  O  I  am  glad  to 
see  you,"  she  exclaimed — "I  have  just  found  some- 
thing for  your  cabinet — here  it  is — my  favorite  little 
lady-bird.  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  have 
something  there  that  you  could  call  lady." 

"  Thank  you,  Lucy,  your  lady  shall  be  installed 
there  with  becoming  honors." 

"  My  lady — no,  not  my  lady — for  my  lady  is  sister 
— she  is  my  mother,  and  my  nurse,  and  my  sister, 
and  my  teacher,  and  my  governess,  and  besides  all 
these,  she's  my  lady  —  she's  my  every  thing." 

"  But  I  was  talking  about  the  lady-bird,"  said  Lin- 
wood,  not  appearing  to  perceive  Agnes'  embarrass- 
ment. "  I  never  expect  to  have  any  other  lady  in  my 
cabinet," — and  he  sighed. 

"And  why  not?  Don't  you  like  ladies? — would 
not  you  like  to  have  a  wife  ?" 

"  O  yes,  I  should  like  very  well  to  have  a  wife,  but 
no  lady  would  like  a  limping  husband,  you  know." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Agnes  had  ever  heard 
him  allude  to  himself  in  this  way, — and  she  felt 
distressed  to  a  degree  that  made  her  almost  gasp  for 
breath.  She  was  relieved,  however,  by  the  entrance 
of  her  father,  bringing  a  book  which  Linwood  had 
called  to  borrow,  and,  upon  receiving  which,  he 
immediately  took  his  leave. 

His  remark  awakened  a  new  train  of  reflection  in 


THE   YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  121 

Agnes'  mind.     She  had  never  before  suspected  the 
existence  of  such  a  feeling  in  his. 

That  same  evening  they  met  again  in  a  little  party. 
Among  other  amusements,  proposed  in  the  evening, 
was  that  of  impromptu  mottoes.  There  were  one  or 
two  married  ladies  present,  known  to  be  gifted  with 
rhyming  powers.  The  mottoes  were  rolled  up,  and 
thrown  as  fast  as  they  were  produced  into  a  box.  A 
person  was  appointed  to  read  them,  and  they  were 
appropriated  by  vote.  Among  others,  there  appeared 
the  following:  — 

"For  her,  who,  as  a  miser's  chest, 
With  jealous  care,  locks  up  her  breast ; 
Find  but  the  key,  the  sterling  gold 
Is  inexhaustible  — untold." 

This  was  given  by  acclamation  to  Agnes,  who, 
blushing,  slipped  it  inside  of  her  glove. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  had  so  little  of 
girlish  nature,  as  not  to  examine  and  read  it  over 
after  she  returned  home.  At  the  first  glance  she 
recognized  the  hand-writing  of  Linwood,  and  a  disin- 
terested observer  would  have  understood,  better  than 
she  did,  the  feeling  that  led  her  carefully  to  lock  it 
up  in  her  work-box. 

"  What  is  that  little  bit  of  paper  you  keep  so  care- 
fully, and  will  never  let  me  touch?"  said  Lucy  one 
day,  to  whom  it  was  something  new  to  have  her 
rummaging  privilege  curtailed. 

"  Nothing  but  a  motto  which  I  brought  home  from 
Mrs.  Elmwood's  party." 

"  But  what  makes  you  so  choice  of  it  ?" 


KB  THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

"Because  it  is  a  very  pretty  motto,"  and  Lucy's 
curiosity  was  allayed. 

O  the  fatality  which  almost  inevitably  attends  a 
secret!  A  few  days  after,  when  Lin  wood  was 
showing  to  Lucy,  who  sat  on  his  lap,  an  exquisite 
little  print,  which  he  would  not  suffer  her  to  touch 
with  her  fingers ;  she  exclaimed,  "  Why,  you  are  as 
choice  of  this  picture  as  sister  is  of  the  motto  which 
she  got  at  Mrs.  Elmwood's  party." 

A  flush  of  pleasure  suffused  the  face  of  Linwood. 
Had  he  ventured  to  look  at  poor  Agnes,  he  would 
have  pitied  her  notwithstanding.  Lucy  was  now 
suffered  to  handle  the  print  as  she  pleased ;  nor  was 
her  pricking  all  round  it,  to  make  what  she  called  a 
pretty  border  for  it,  observed  by  either  of  her  com- 
panions. 

Henceforth  life  was  a  new  existence  to  Henry 
Linwood.  It  was  possible  that,  in  spite  of  all,  Agnes 
Callender  might  regard  him  with  a  sentiment  capable 
of  being  cultivated  into  a  permanent  attachment. 
Her  now  altered  and  embarrassed  manner  tended  to 
confirm  his  hopes ;  yet  it  was  a  long  time  before  he 
ventured  to  presume  upon  them,  and  just  as  he  had 
determined  to  cast  his  all  of  hope  and  happiness  upon 
a  single  die,  something  occurred  which  induced  him 
to  delay  the  important  step. 

Since  her  mother's  death,  Agnes  received  repeated 
invitations  from  a  friend  of  hers,  Mrs.  Scott,  who 
resided  in  Boston,  to  pass  some  months  with  her, 
accompanied  by  Lucy ;  but  notwithstanding  that  lady's 
arguments,  in  regard  to  the  importance  of  an  occasional 


THE    YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  123 

residence  in  town  to  a  country  girl,  and  the  various 
attractions  of  such  a  visit,  which  she  failed  not  to  set 
forth  in  the  most  glowing  colors,  Agnes  preferred 
remaining  at  home.  Now,  however,  Mr.  Callender, 
who  had  been  for  some  time  subject  to  a  severe 
asthma,  having  determined  to  pass  the  winter  in  a 
milder  climate,  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Scott's 
invitation  to  his  children  should  be  accepted. 

Linwood  did  not  hasten,  as  others  perhaps  would 
have  done  in  like  circumstances,  to  secure  his  prize, 
if  possible,  from  the  threatened  danger  of  rival  com- 
petitors. He  attributed  the  interest  with  which  he 
believed,  or  rather  hoped,  to  have  inspired  Agnes,  in 
part  to  compassion ;  and  with  his  love  there  mingled 
a  sentiment  of  gratitude,  which  led  him  magnani- 
mously to  resolve  that  he  would  not  take  selfish 
advantage  of  any  power  which  he  might  thus  have 
acquired  over  her  affections.  She  had  seen  but  few 
young  men,  and  she  had  been  almost  exclusively 
limited  to  the  circumscribed  society  of  a  country 
village.  In  a  more  enlarged  intercourse  with  the 
world,  she  might  discover  that  she  had  bestowed  her 
preference  prematurely,  and,  introduced  into  a  state 
of  society  where  greater  importance  is  attached  to 
circumstances,  merely  adventitious,  she  might  find 
that  she  had  too  much  disregarded  the  obstacle,  for 
such  it  would  commonly  b*e  considered,  to  a  union 
with  him. 

We  have  never  spoken  of  our  heroine's  personal 
appearance,  nor  did  the  omission  occur  to  us,  until, 
about  to  introduce  her  into  town  life,  we  were  remind- 


124  THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

ed  that  it  is  regarded  as  an  item  of  great  importance, 
when  a  young  lady,  in  technical  language,  makes  her 
debut.  Though  educated  almost  exclusively  in  the 
country,  she  had  a  natural  grace  and  propriety  about 
her — an  essentially  lady-like  air,  which  stamps  the 
true  gentlewoman.  She  was  tall  and  well-formed ; 
her  eye,  hair  and  complexion,  were  beautiful ;  and 
the  sweetness  and  intelligence  of  her  face  made  you 
forget  that  her  features  were  not  perfectly  regular. 
She  had,  besides,  a  very  nice  taste  in  dress,  as  unerr- 
ing as  instinct  itself,  which  led  her  to  array  herself 
always  becomingly.  Her  style  of  dress  was  suited 
to  her  character — a  style  of  simple  elegance. 

The  incidents  of  a  young  lady's  first  visit  to  town, 
are  usually  of  a  monotonous  character,  that  is,  they 
belong  to  a  single  class.  Mrs.  Scott  was  a  woman 
of  fashion,  very  much  in  society;  and,  persuaded 
that  this  was  the  most  important  winter  of  her  young 
friend's  life,  determined  that  she  should  improve  it 
to  the  utmost,  in  a  continual  round  of  gay  amuse- 
ments. Occasionally,  and  for  a  limited  period,  such 
a  mode  of  life  has  charms  for  most  young  persons, 
whatever  may  be  their  peculiar  tastes  or  genera! 
habits.  Agnes  felt  herself  excited  by  it,  but  still 
preserved  her  old  habit  of  a  systematic  distribution 
of  her  time,  and  kept  up,  in  some  degree,  her  devo- 
tion to  Lucy.  She  had  a  fine  talent  for  music,  which 
she  had  already  cultivated  successfully,  with  very 
little  instruction ;  and  in  the  absence  of  more  serious 
occupations,  she  determined  to  make  the  most  of  her 
present  opportunity  for  acquiring  that  accomplishment 


THE    YOUNG  DEVOTEE.  .86 

more  perfectly  —  how  far  lanwood's  fondness  for 
sweet  sound  stimulated  her  to  persevere,  in  spite  of 
obstacles  neither  few  nor  small,  in  devoting  two 
hours  every  day  to  the  piano,  we  cannot  say  —  then 
one  hour  of  each  day  was  given  to  Lucy,  in  examin- 
ing the  progress  she  had  made  at  her  school  during 
the  day,  and  assisting  her  in  the  next  day's  lessons. 

Mrs.  Scott  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  success  of  her 
young  friend.  She  received  a  degree  of  admiration 
sufficient  to  have  invested  her  with  the  rank  and 
distinction  of  a  helle,  had  it  not  been  that  there  was 
something  in  her  general  air  and  manner,  which 
seemed  decidedly  to  disclaim  and  reject  all  such 
pretensions.  The  sweet  Lily  of  the  Valley  could 
as  soon  be  suspected  of  aspiring  to  reach  the  height, 
and  emulate  the  showy  coloring  of  the  tulip,  in 
whose  neighborhood  it  chanced  to  grow. 

Among  other  admirers  of  Agnes,  was  Frank 
Frazier,  a  nephew  of  Mr.  Scott,  a  young  man  of 
fortune  and  accomplishment,  and  particularly  distin- 
guished for  his  personal  attractions.  Being  on  a 
footing  of  intimacy  at  his  uncle's,  he  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  Agnes  in  points  of  view,  divested 
of  that  enchantment  which  distance  lends,  and  found 
that  her  charms  increased  just  in  proportion  as  he 
approached  her  more  nearly.  In  short,  he  fell  in 
love,  and  was  the  most  devoted  of  her  train. 

Mrs.  Scott  was  delighted,  for  she  had  no  doubt  of 

the  result  of  his  suit;  and  flattered  herself  that,  in 

technical  phrase,  she  had  made  the  match;  a  merit 

which  many  of  her  sex,  in  like  circumstances,  have 

11- 


125  THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

been  eager  to  claim,  without  considering  what  fear- 
ful responsibility  such  an  interference  must  ere* 
involve. 

Meanwhile,  Linwood,  who  had  been  elected  to 
represent  the  village  of in  the  state  legis- 
lature, arrived  in  Boston.  Having  called  when 
Agnes  was  out,  he  missed  seeing  her  until  they  met 
at  a  brilliant  party  given  by  Mrs.  Frazier.  Though 
he  had  been  in  town  but  a  single  day,  the  report, 
already  current,  of  Agnes'  engagement,  did  not  fail 
to  reach  his  ears  through  a  young  lady  of  his 
acquaintance  who  often  met  her  in  society;  and 
though  he  did  not  implicitly  believe  it,  he  felt  that  it 
was  but  too  probable. 

He  was  impatient  to  see  her,  and  judge  for  himself; 
and  when  his  eye  first  fell  upon  her,  she  was  stand- 
ing up  in  a  dance  with  her  reputed  lover  by 
her  side. 

Struck  with  his  elegant  appearance,  and  mistaking 
the  flush  and  the  glow,  which  in  Agnes  were  merely 
the  effect  of  the  exhilarating  exercise,  for  the  anima- 
tion of  joy  and  hope,  he  believed  that  he  saw  with 
his  own  eyes,  a  confirmation  of  the  report  which  had 
BO  much  agitated  him. 

"  How  deadly  pale  you  are,  Linwood,"  exclaimed 
a  young  man  of  his  acquaintance,  who  observed  his 
sudden  change  of  countenance.  "  It  must  be  the 
fume  of  these  vile  lamps  that  affects  you  so  disagree- 
ably." 

At  that  moment  the  dance  broke  up,  and  it  chanced 
that  Agnes'  partner  conducted  her  to  a  seat  near 


THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  127 

which  Linwood  stood.  Glowing  as  her  cheek  already 
was,  a  deeper  hue  suffused  it  as  they  exchanged  a 
joyful  recognition. 

The  diamond  is  the  common  illustration  of  a  bright 
eye.  That  of  Agnes  always  reminded  me  of  the 
unrivalled  gem,  whenever  any  thing  occurred  that 
gave  her  peculiar  pleasure.  Then  it  flashed,  and 
shot  a  brilliant  gleam,  such  as  the  diamond  emits 
when  a  bright  ray  of  light  kindles  its  magic  blaze. 
And  thus  it  flashed  as  it  encountered  that  of  Lin- 
wood  ;  but  he  thought  it  was  only  natural  that  she 
should  be  excited  by  seeing,  after  such  an  unwonted 
absence  from  home,  one  who  was  associated  with  all 
its  cherished  remembrances.  Her  animated  conver- 
sation connected  with  those  remembrances,  occupied 
them  until  supper  was  announced,  when  Frank 
offered  her  his  arm,  and  escorted  her  to  the  table. 

44  Who  is  that  unfortunate  piece  of  deformity,"  he 
asked,  4<upon  whom  your  smiles  are  so  readily 
bestowed?"  and  looking  down  with  complacency 
upon  his  own  finely  turned  leg,  he  added,  "they 
should  be  reserved  for  those  to  whom  nature  has  not 
denied  a  claim  to  them." 

14  He  is  a  young  man,"  replied  Agnes,  "  from  whom 
nature,  in  lavishly  bestowing  upon  him  her  richest 
gifts,  was  obliged  to  withhold  one  which,  though 
desirable,  is  certainly  of  far  inferior  value  to  the  rest, 
lest  she  might  be  suspected  of  departing  from  that 
system  of  compensation,  by  which  she  has  the  credit 
of  being  guided  in  all  her  operations." 

It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Agnes  hod 


4* 

198  THE  YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

spoken  so  boldly,  or  with  so  much  implied  seve- 
rity. She  had  but  lately  begun  to  believe,  notwith- 
standing Mrs.  Scott's  hints  and  insinuations,  that 
Frazier  was  really  enacting  the  suitor.  Being  tired 
of  him,  she  was  desirous  that  he  should  discover  her 
indifference  as  soon  as  possible :  and  her  indignation 
at  the  coarse  and  unfeeling  manner  in  which  he 
spoke  of  Linwood,  roused  her  to  say  that  in  behalf 
of  the  latter,  which  would  have  touched  him  in  his 
weakest  point  had  he  been  more  sensitive.  He  had, 
however,  sufficient  conceit  to  save  him  from  any 
personal  application  of  this  speech;  nor  did  the 
possibility  that  he  might  find,  "in  that  piece  of 
deformity,"  a  rival,  occur  to  him. 

It  is  impossible  to  say,  whether  Agnes  would  have 
been  more  sorry  or  glad  had  she  known  that  her 
words  reached  Lin  wood's  ear,  as,  in  passing  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  his  progress  was  interrupted 
for  two  or  three  moments  just  by  her  chair.  He  was 
at  no  loss  to  apply  them,  although  he  had  not  heard 
the  observation  that  called  them  forth.  "  Noble 
girl,"  he  inwardly  exclaimed,  and  yet  he  doubted 
whether  she  felt  for  him  any  thing  more  than  a  senti- 
ment of  high  esteem. 

Two  weeks  passed  away,  after  these  incidents 
occurred,  during  which  delicacy  compelled  Agnes  to 
play  an  equal  part  between  her  lovers.  She  scrupu- 
lously avoided  receiving  from  Frank  any  attentions 
which  might  be  supposed  to  proceed  from  other 
motives  than  politeness ;  and,  as  Liinwood  had  never 
declared  himself,  she  felt  not  at  all  sure  that  there 


4 

THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  10 

existed,  on  his  part,  a  tender  sentiment  towards  her. 
She  therefore  carefully  guarded,  almost  from  herself, 
and  still  more  from  him,  the  secret  of  a  latent  prepos- 
session in  his  favor — which  under  favorable  circum- 
stances might  be  fully  elicited. 

Her  intercourse  with  both,  however,  was  completely 
suspended  for  some  weeks,  by  the  illness  of  Lucy, 
suffering  under  a  severe  attack  of  scarlet  fever.  The 
physician  did  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  that  her  life 
depended  upon  the  most  careful  nursing ;  and  by  no 
argument  or  intreaty  could  Agnes  be  induced  to  leave 
her  a  moment,  except  to  take  some  slight  refreshment 
in  an  adjoining  apartment.  Even  after  the  child  was 
pronounced  convalescent,  the  fear  of  a  relapse  retained 
Agnes  at  her  post. 

Finding  that  she  still  refused  to  leave  Lucy,  Frank 
became  impatient,  and  determined  no  longer  to  delay 
a  formal  declaration  of  his  sentiments.  A  less  confi- 
dent lover  might  have  thought  that  such  an  exposure  to 
open  rejection  had  been  already  rendered  unnecessary. 

Having  selected  an  exquisite  little  sheet  of  note 
paper,  with  an  embossed  edge,  and  inscribed  with 
a  specimen  of  his  most  elegant  penmanship — he 
carefully  folded  it  —  sealed  it  with  a  cameo  seal,  and 
slipping  it  inside  of  a  letter  which  he  had  just  brought 
for  her  from  the  post-office,  sent  it  up  to  her  room. 

The  letter  was  from  her  father,  from  whom  she 
had  not  heard  for  several  weeks,  and  by  the  time  she 
had  read  it  through,  the  note,  which  had  accidentally 
fallen  on  the  floor,  was  entirely  forgotten,  until  Lucy 
directed  her  attention  to  it. 


130  THE   YOUNG  DEVOTEE. 

Its  import  was  to  this  effect — that  he  had  never 
before  experienced  so  severe  a  privation  as  the  loss, 
for  so  long  a  time,  of  her  society ;  that  such  a  trial 
was  not  necessary  to  convince  him  of  what  he  had 
previously  discovered,  that  she  was  indispensable  to 
his  happiness  —  and  that  nothing  but  an  acknow- 
ledgment, on  her  part,  that  these  sentiments  were 
reciprocated,  could  reconcile  him  to  a  longer  separa- 
tion. 

Agnes  replied,  thanking  him  for  his  professions  of 
regard,  and  added,  that  in  responding  to  them,  she 
must  limit  herself  to  terms  of  common  friendship. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Linwood,  who,  besides 
longing  to  see  Agnes  once  more,  really  began  to 
entertain  serious  fears  for  the  effect,  upon  her  health, 
of  such  prolonged  confinement,  called  to  inquire 
about  her  and  Lucy.  He  requested  that  Mrs.  Scott 
would  do  him  the  favor  to  carry  a  message  to  Miss 
Callender,  entreating  that  she  would  consent  to  walk 
out  and  take  the  air. 

Lucy,  who  had  never  before  been  willing  that 
Agnes  should  leave  her  a  moment,  joined  in  the 
request;  but  bade  Mrs.  Scott  tell  Mr.  Linwood,  that 
she  would  not  have  spared  her  sister  to  any  one  but 
him. 

They  had  proceeded  but  a  few  steps,  when  they 
met  Frank  Frazier,  who  passed  them  with  a  slight 
touch  of  the  hat.  Linwood  knew  instantly  from  his 
manner,  that  an  explanation,  unfavorable  to  his  suit, 
must  have  taken  place  between  him  and  Agnes  ;  and 
the  joy  excited  by  this  discovery,  was  visible  in  the 


THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  131 

uncommon  vivacity  of  his  spirits  during  the  whole 
walk. 

Just  as  they  were  returning,  "  Tell  me,  Agnes," 
said  he,  "  for  I  will  not  longer  bear  this  uncertainty, 
shall  I,  in  formally  declaring  what  must  have  been 
apparent  to  you,  doom  myself  to  the  fate  which  I  see 
you  have  inflicted  upon  our  friend  ?" 

"  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  inflict  upon  you, 
a  fate  that  you  would  regard  as  evil,"  replied  Agnes, 
in  some  confusion. 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  opened.  "  Au 
revoir"  said  Linwood,  as,  pressing  her  hand,  he  bade 
her  good  morning,  and  she  passed  up  to  her  room. 
A  long  communication  which  she  that  day  received, 
to  which  a  text  had  been  furnished  by  the  above 
conversation,  met  a  different  reception  from  that 
which  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Frazier's  note. 

"  What  does  make  you  read  that  letter  over,  and 
over,  and  over,  sister  ?"  asked  Lucy. 

As  Mr.  Callender  was  supposed  to  be  about  this 
time  on  the  point  of  returning  home,  Linwood  thought 
it  useless  to  apply  to  him,  by  letter,  for  his  sanction  to 
these  important  measures.  He  had  received  so  many 
and  such  unquestionable  proofs  of  Mr.  Callender's 
entire  confidence  and  respect,  not  to  say  personal 
attachment  too,  that  the  possibility  of  any  objection  on 
his  part,  to  bestowing  upon  him  his  daughter,  had 
never  occurred  to  him. 

He  left  Boston  a  week  or  two  after  the  eventful 


138  THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

explanation  had  taken  place,  and  was  soon  followed 
by  Mr.  Callender  and  his  children. 

As  the  engagement  had  not  become  known  to 
Agnes'  friends,  and  she  was  too  modest  to  speak  of 
it  to  her  father,  he  remained  in  utter  ignorance  of 
the  whole  affair,  until  it  was  announced  to  him  by 
Linwood  himself,  when,  contrary  to  all  expectation, 
he  expressed  the  most  positive  and  entire  disapproba- 
tion of  it,  giving  as  a  reason  that  which  Linwood  had 
feared  might  constitute  an  obstacle  with  the  daughter, 
without  suspecting  that  it  could  affect  the  mind  of  the 
father. 

This  was  a  blow  from  which  it  was  not  easy  to 
recover,  and  many  days  passed  before  he  emerged 
again  from  the  seclusion  of  his  own  solitary  apart- 
ment. 

Meanwhile  her  father  did  not  fail  to  inform  Agnes 
of  the  result  of  Linwood's  application,  and  to  give 
her  his  whole  mind  upon  the  subject.  She  was  like 
the  lamb  led  to  the  slaughter,  which  opens  not  its 
mouth,  until  he  had  exhausted  all  he  had  to  say; 
when  she  simply  replied,  "  Then,  henceforth,  sir,  I 
devote  my  life  to  you." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  child;  these  young 
hearts  are  amazingly  susceptible  —  impressions  are 
easily  made  and  easily  effaced." 

Mr.  Callender  had  not  derived  the  benefit  to  his 
health,  from  his  voyage  and  winter  residence,  which  he 
expected.  He  had  mistaken  the  nature  of  the  climate 
lie  had  sought,  in  supposing  it  suited  to  his  complaint, 


THE   YOUNG   DEVOTEE.  133 

which  it  rather  aggravated  than  allayed.  He  had 
many  severe  attacks  in  the  course  of  the  summer,  and 
Agnes  devoted  herself  to  him  with  untiring  assiduity. 
When  so  ill  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  up  all  night, 
as  not  unfrequently  happened,  she  would  not  leave 
his  room ;  but  threw  herself  upon  a  sofa,  whence  she 
often  rose  to  see  if  he  did  not  require  some  attention. 

She  even  gave  up,  very  much,  the  care  of  Lucy, 
and  sent  her  to  a  school  in  the  neighborhood. 

She  hardly  saw  Linwood,  for  Mr.  Callender's  ill 
health,  being  of  a  kind  particularly  to  unfit  him  for 
conversation,  served  him  as  a  pretext  for  staying 
away ;  and  he  felt  that  to  meet  often  would  be  painful 
both  to  himself  and  Agnes.  Occasionally,  however, 
when  admitted  by  particular  request  of  the  invalid  to 
his  sick  room,  he  gazed  at  Agnes'  altered  appearance 
with  a  look  of  the  most  tender  solicitude. 

"'Tis  true,  Linwood,"  said  Mr.  Callender,  replying 
one  day  to  his  companion's  looks,  not  his  words  — 
"  'tis  true,  the  poor  girl  is  suffering  much  from  this 
unremitting  attendance  upon  me.  But  what  is  to  be 
done?  she  will  not  leave  me,  and  I  —  I  am  very 
dependent  upon  her."  As  he  finished  speaking  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Three  or  four  months  passed  away,  and  Mr. 
Callender  began  to  experience  a  sensible  mitigation 
of  his  complaint.  As  he  became  again  capable  of 
enjoying  society,  he  was  eager  as  ever  for  that  of 
Linwood ;  who,  in  spite  of  the  estrangement  of  feeling 
produced  by  what  he  considered  unjust  and  unreason- 
able conduct  on  his  part,  retained  too  sensible  a 


(M  THE  YOUNG   DEVOTEE. 

remembrance  of  former  obligations,  and  felt  too 
conscientiously  the  duties  which  persons  in  health 
owe  to  the  sick,  to  withhold  what  seemed  to  give  him 
so  much  pleasure. 

At  first  it  was  Agnes'  custom  to  escape  from  the 
room  soon  after  he  entered ;  but,  by  degrees,  she 
found  herself  quietly  retaining  her  accustomed  seat, 
and  listening  to  his  conversation  with  more  pleasure, 
than  any  thing  else,  saving  always  Lucy's  fond 
caresses,  could  now  afford  her. 

And  why  was  not  Mr.  Callender  afraid  of  this 
continued  intercourse?  How  could  he  hope  that 
Agnes'  affections  would  be  weaned  from  Lin  wood 
when  they  were  thus  continually  supplied  Avith  fresh 
food?  He  did  not  analyze  his  feelings  upon  the 
subject,  and,  had  he  done  so,  he  would  have  been  at 
a  loss,  perhaps,  to  answer  these  inquiries.  Agnes' 
great  devotion  to  him  had  made  him  doubt  the  reason- 
ableness of  his  conduct  towards  her,  and  he  was 
perhaps  willing  to  follow,  as  chance  might  lead,  to  a 
retrieval  of  his  error. 

One  evening,  as  she  was  performing  some  little 
service  for  him,  when  Linwood  was  present,  he  said 
to  her,  "  My  child,  you  have  long  been  doing  all  in 
your  power  for  me ;  'tis  time  that  I  should  do  some- 
thing for  you.  I  am  going  to  my  room  to  write  a 
letter,  and  will  leave  you  to  consult  with  Mr.  Linwood 
on  the  choice  of  your  reward."  He  advanced  as  far 
as  the  door,  then  returned  —  "My  dear  friend,"  said 
he,  addressing  himself  to  Linwood,  and  taking  him 
by  the  hand  —  "I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you  both. 


THE    YOUNG    DEVOTEE.  136 

Assume  each  my  debt  to  the  other,  and  pay  it  as  you 
best  may.  My  long  sickness  has  rid  me  I  hope  of 
some  follies,  and  among  others,  that  of  thinking  that 
there  is  any  reasonable  bar  to  the  union  which  you 
both  desire." 

He  then  retreated,  leaving  the  lovers  to  quaff 
together  the  delicious  cup  thus  unexpectedly  present- 
ed to  their  lips. 


STANZAS. 


STILL  haunted,  wheresoe'er  I  fly, 
Yet  doomed  for  aye  to  fly  alone — 

I  cannot  live,  yet  may  not  die, 

Still  seeking  what  is  still  unknown. 

Hear  thou,  who  wilt  not  leave  me  free, 
Hear  but  the  prayer  I  now  prefer  — 

The  dream  of  love  thou'st  taught  to  me, 
Unteach  me  quite,  or  teach  to  her. 


LAKE    GEORGE. 


NOT  in  the  bannered  castle  — 

Beside  the  gilded  throne  — 
On  fields  where  knightly  ranks  have  strode - 

In  feudal  halls — alone  — 
The  spirit  of  the  stately  mien, 

Whose  presence  flings  a  spell 
Fadeless,  on  all  around  her, 

In  empire  loves  to  dwell ! 

Gray  piles,  and  moss-grown  cloisters 

Call  up  the  shadows  vast, 
That  linger  in  their  dim  domain  — 

Dreams  of  the  visioned  past ! 
As  sweep  the  gorgeous  pageants  by, 

We  watch  the  pictured  train, 
And  sigh  that  aught  so  glorious 

Should  be  so  brief  and  vain. 

But  here  a  spell  yet  deeper, 

Breathes  from  the  woods,  the  sky  ; 

Proudlier  these  rocks  and  waters  speak 
Of  hoar  antiquity. 


LAKE    OEORGE.  13; 

Here  nature  built  her  ancient  realm, 

While  yet  the  world  was  young ; 
Her  monuments  of  grandeur 

Unshaken  stand,  and  strong. 

Here  shines  the  sun  of  Freedom 

Forever,  o'er  the  deep 
Where  Freedom's  heroes,  by  the  shore, 

In  peaceful  glory  sleep. 
And  deeds  of  high  and  proud  emprize 

In  every  breeze  are  told — 
The  everlasting  tribute 

To  hearts  that  now  are  cold  ! 

Farewell,  then,  scenes  so  lovely! 

If  sunset  gild  your  rest, 
Or  the  pale  starlight  gleam  upon 

The  water's  silvery  breast  — 
Or  morning  on  these  glad  green  isles 

In  trembling  splendor  glows,  — 
A  holier  spell  than  beauty 

Hallows  your  pure  repose ! 


12- 


DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA. 


GALEAZZO,  Duke  of  Milan,  was  assassinated  A.  D.  1476,  on  St.  Stephen's 
day,  while  entering  the  church,  by  three  young  men, — Lampognano, 
Visconti,  and  Olgiato  ;  who,  in  addition  to  their  hatred  of  his  public  career, 
were  irritated  against  him  by  private  injuries.  The  first  two  were  im- 
mediately killed  by  the  guards,  but  Olgiato  made  his  escape.  Being  refused 
shelter  and  sustenance  by  all  his  friends,  except  his  mother,  he  was 
afterwards  taken  and  executed  on  the  scaffold.  His  last  words  were,— 
•'  Mora  ncerba,  Jama  perpetua  ;  stabit  vclus  memoria  facti." 


'TWAS  morn;  the  sun  upon  a  throne  of  light, 

Poured  forth  his  golden  smile,  unclouded,  bright — 

From  Alpine  hills  the  moon  was  seen  to  rise, 

Shaping  from  earth  a  pathway  to  the  skies. 

The  song  of  streams  was  heard  in  joyous  sweep, 

And  nearer  still,  the  murmurs  low  and  deep 

Of  human  tones.     A  mighty  city  lay 

In  the  warm  light — where  shone  the  awakened  day 

On  burnished  roof,  and  towers,  and  glittering  spires, 

Whose  kindling  peaks  shone  all  with  answering  fires. 

It  was  a  holy  day — and  many  a  bell 

Pealed  out  its  summoning  tones  in  solemn  swell ; 

And  all  obeyed.     The  priest  in  robes  of  white, 

Which  seemed  to  enfold  the  consecrated  light, 

Passed  slowly  on — and  meekly  in  his  train 

The  crowd  that  sought  his  words  of  life  to  gain. 

The  peasant,  there,  his  labours  ceased  awhile, 


DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA.         139 

And  passed  with  brow  composed  and  thoughtful  smile; 

The  noble,  too,  forgetful  of  his  pride, 

With  his  unemulous  serf  walked  side  by  side ; 

The  stately  knight  dreamed  not  of  victories  won, 

And  waved  no  glittering  falchion  in  the  sun  ; 

But  passed  with  humble  port  to  worship  Him, 

In  whose  high  sight  the  deeds  of  earth  grow  dim. 

Yet  passed  a  few  amid  the  silent  throng, 

Whose  bosoms  burned  with  passions  cherished  long; 

With  high  resolves,  matured  and  hid  in  night, 

Yet  in  the  hours  of  darkness  gathering  might, 

Like  the  pent  torrent,  struggling  with  its  chain, 

With  deadlier  rage  to  desolate  the  plain. 

They,  too,  passed  on — with  step  subdued,  and  mien 

Humblest  of  all  that  in  the  crowd  were  seen ; 

Yet  oft  the  lip  comprest — the  glancing  eye, 

Whose  quick  keen  look  would  scan  each  visage  nigh, 

Marked  them  as   strange, — perchance   for  men   oi 

crime 

Stained  with  remorse,  unsoothed  by  changing  time ; 
And  one  by  one,  the  multitude,  in  fear, 
Shrank  from  their  side.     Oh !  long  the  moment  near, 
By  those  stern  spirits,  had  been  wished  and  sought ! 
Where'er  their  steps  had  been,  a  single  thought 
Had  fired  each  breast — stern,  restless,  mastering  still 
Each  weaker  passion,  and  each  selfish  will. 
They  saw  their  place  of  birth,  their  fathers'  land 
Sunk  'neath  the  pressure  of  an  iron  hand. 
They  heard  the  sighs,  a  mighty  nation  poured  -— 
The  deep  curse,  breathed  upon  its  tyrant  lord — 
And,  pledged  to  vengeance,  swore  that  from  her  chain, 


110        DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA. 

Their  country  should  arise  to  life  again, 
Though  the  stern  blow  for  which  the  sword  they  drew 
To  free  their  land,  should  crush  her  champions  too ! 
The  hour  was  come; — they  reached  the  lofty  gate; 
The  archway  frowned  in  proud  and  sculptured  state, 
Fit  entrance  to  such  temple !  — "  'Tis  the  spot 
Appointed — and  the  hour — why  comes  he  not?"  — 
Within,  a  solemn  strain  of  music  rose, 
Breaking  the  silent  temple's  rich  repose: 
And  as  the  anthem  swelled  upon  the  ear, 
Without,  the  tramp  of  hastening  feet  they  hear ; 
And  dark  eyes  flashed — as  proudly  to  their  sight, 
tn  gorgeous  robes,  with  many  a  chosen  knight 
Ranged  at  his  side,  the  haughty  sovereign  came, 
Fresh  blessings  from  insulted  Heaven  to  claim ! 
Nor  deemed  that  righteous  vengeance,  long  delayed, 
Watched  for  her  prey  beneath  the  sacred  shade. 
He  strode  yet  on — he  stood  beside  the  door — 
His  step  that  threshold  shall  profane  no  more ! 
"  God  and  St.  Ambrose!" — Starting  at  the  cry, 
Their  consecrated  weapons  gleamed  on  high  I  — 
"  God  and  St.  Ambrose !"  answering  to  the  sound, 
Their  swift  blows  felled  the  tyrant  to  the  ground ! 
A  moment — and  'twas  o'er — prostrate  he  lay, 
A  hundred  death-wounds  gaping  to  the  day — 
While  darkly  on  his  brow,  of  life  bereft, 
Her  seal  of  pride  the  parting  spirit  left. 
In  wild  amazement  stood  his  menial  train; — 
And  could  no  tongue  awake  the  shout  again? 
Burst  there  no  voice  of  rapture,  to  proclaim 
Their  country  free,  to  hail  her  champions'  name  ? 


DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA.  141 

Were  there  no  hearts  whose  burning  wrongs  called 

loud 

For  such  revenge,  in  all  that  wondering  crowd  1 
There  were !  but  panic  chilled  each  throbbing  breast, 
Where  thoughts  of  daring  had  no  longer  rest ! 
They  dared  not  strive  for  freedom !     And  they  saw, 
Panting  to  aid,  but  quelled  by  slavish  awe, 
Those  fated  men,  whose  crime  had  been  to  biave 
Untimely  death,  their  bleeding  land  to  save, 
Hewn  down  by  numerous  swords ;  —  they  heard  the 

groan, 

They  saw  the  desperate  struggle,  as  alone, 
Unsuccored,  two  already  sunk  to  die — 
The  third  then  flung  his  reeking  blade  on  high, 
And  sought  escape  by  flight.     On  every  side 
The  multitude  in  silent  fear  divide, 
And  as  he  vanished  from  their  baffled  sight, 
Half  uttered  benisons  pursued  his  flight. 

The  scene  was  changed :  — the  slow  and  solemn  tread 
Of  mingled  crowds,  and  anthems  for  the  dead, 
Were  heard,  low  swelling  to  the  cloudless  sky;  — 
And  near,  the  frowning  scaffold  rose  on  high ; 
While  he  who  was  to  pour  his  life-blood  there, 
Came  forth  with  haggard  brow,  and  bosom  bare, 
Led  by  the  ministers  of  royal  hate, 
Who  scowled  exulting  o'er  their  victim's  fate. 
Yet  in  his  dauntless  mien,  and  bearing  high, 
And  the  proud  anger  of  his  scornful  eye, 
He  bore  what  quelled  his  foes,  and  from  his  name 
Back  on  their  conscious  bosoms  turned  the  shame  f 


142  DEATH   OF    GALEAZZO    8FORZA. 

Bound,  and  with  step  that  faltered  but  with  pain, 

He  stood  upon  the  scaffold!   Through  the  train 

Which  thronged  the  space  around,  a  murmur 

Low,  deep,  and  universal, — like  the  blast 

That  scuds  through  forest  boughs,  a  stirring  thrill, 

Bowing  their  tops — and  all  again  was  still. 

Was  it  expiring  freedom's  latest  cry? 

He  knew  not — cared  not — hither  brought  to  die, 

What  recked  it  that  his  undeserved  fate 

Should  rouse  their  pity  ?     It  was  now  too  late ! 

Who — when  from  tyrant  vengeance  he  had  fled, 

The  price  of  princely  murder  on  his  head, 

And  sought  in  vain,  throughout  his  native  land, 

A  spot  for  refuge — who,  in  all  that  band 

Which  stood  to  watch  his  death,  had  dared  to  give 

A  sheltering  home,  and  bid  the  wanderer  live  ? 

None — none !  all  shrunk  in  terror  from  his  touch ; 

Priest — soldier — father — brethren !  'Twas  too  much. 

The  sufferer  from  patrician  wrath  to  hide  — 

And  all  the  boon  of  sustenance  denied ! 

How  oft,  in  shelter  of  some  Alpine  wood, 

The  brute  his  comrade,  and  wild  herbs  his  food, 

Lone  had  he  roamed,  when  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Or  the  wild  storm  careered  through  clouds  on  high, 

To  snatch  a  look  at  scenes  beloved  in  vain,      i  ,„*  r 

Which  his  sad  step  might  never  tread  again ! 

How  often  had  he  cursed,  with  bitter  heart, 

The  coward  souls  which  shunned  to  bear  their  part 

In  the  high  deed  that  might  have  made  all  free, 

Had  such  been  formed  to  cherish  liberty ! 

Fet  was  there  one — yes  one — who  would  have  given 


DEATH   OF   GALEAZZO   SFO11ZA.  143 

Her   heart's  last  drop  to   save   him, — would  have 

striven 

Singly  'gainst  earth  and  heaven !     She  alone 
Received  him,  to  all  love  besides  unknown !  — 
She,  only,  watched,  with  daily,  hourly  care, 
And  poured  for  him  the  agonizing  prayer !  — 
His  mother  !     Now,  when  all  the  timid  throng 
Retreated,  to  the  scaffold's  foot  she  clung, 
And  wept  alone.     Oh !  proudly  he  had  borne 
The  rabble's  pity,  and  patrician  scorn. — 
But  this — the  bitterness  of  death  was  here! 
He  turned  away,  and  checked  the  gushing  tear; 
While  coldly  on  his  sickened  sense,  a  knell 
To  hope  and  life,  the  deadly  summons  fell, 
They  took  his  chains  away — and  free  once  more, 
The  life-warm  tide,  so  checked  and  chilled  before, 
Burst  in  bewildering  vigour  on  his  brain, 
And  nerved  him  to  forgotten  joy  again. 
He  saw  afar  beneath  the  smiling  skies, 
His  native  hills  in  pencilled  beauty  rise 
He  saw,  through  vallies  bright  with  summer  glee, 
The  Po  sweep  on  to  join  the  distant  sea; 
The  lines  of  sunset  in  their  bland  repose, 
He  saw  recline  on  gleaming  Alpine  snows ; 
While  o'er  the  humbler  woodland's  sloping  swell, 
Calm,  mild,  and  rich,  the  golden  glory  fell ; 
And  near,  the  stately  city  stood  in  pride — 
Alas !  fair  land !  'twere  rapture  to  have  died 
For  thee,  if  in  thy  breast  the  martyr's  doom 
Could  light  one  spark,  to  banish  slavery's  gloom! 
Wildly  toward  Heaven  his  arms  unchained  he  threw — 


144        DEATH  OF  GALEAZZO  SFORZA. 

"'Tis  not" — he  proudly  cried — "'tis  not  for  you, 
"  Degraded  race,  who  meekly  trembling,  tread 
"  Your  fathers'  land,  and  shame  the  glorious  dead,— 
"My  sentence  to  record!  —  Yon  hills,  which  stand 
"The  everlasting  guardians  of  this  land — 
"  Yon  river's  ancient  tide — the  eternal  sky — 
"  These  are  my  witnesses !  — here  must  I  die — 
"  But  these — which  saw  my  treason,  and  behold 
"The  guerdon  ye  bestow  on  hearts  too  bold — 
"  When  no  dark  art  of  malice  can  prevail, 
41  To  future  years  shall  tell  the  impartial  tale ! 
"  My  death  is  bitter,  but  from  no  true  heart 
"  The  memory  of  my  wrong  shall  e'er  depart ! 
"  The  deed  is  fixed,  and  ages  yet  unborn 
"  Shall  know  on  whom  to  hurl  the  shaft  of  scorn." 
He  said, — and  glanced  one  brief  and  farewell  look; 
Then  bowed  his  neck,  that  knew  no  yoke  to  brook, 
One  moment  high  the  unshadowed  weapon  gleamed — • 
The  next  in  crimson  tide  life's  current  streamed ! 
A  cry  was  heard — 'twas  not  from  him  who  bled, — 
But  full  of  startling  anguish,  wild  and  dread. 
Woman's  heart-broken  shriek — such  as  could  pour 
One  breast  alone,  when  its  last  hope  was  o'er ! 

E. 


AMY    CRANSTOUN. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  REDWOOD,  HOPE  LESLIE,  ETC. 


THE  famous  Indian  war,  which  ended  in  the 
destruction  of  the  chieftain  of  Mount  Hope  and  his 
adherents,  broke  out  just  a  hundred  years  before  our 
revolutionary  war;  a  circumstance  which  we  leave 
for  the  speculation  of  those  who  believe  that  certain 
periods  of  time  have  a  mysterious  relation  and  depen- 
dance,  while  we  use  it  merely  to  fix  the  date  of  a 
domestic  story,  some  important  portions  of  which  have 
been  omitted  on  the  page  of  history,  rather  we  should 
hope  from  its  fitness  for  a  cabinet  picture,  than  from 
its  insignificance. 

Madam  Cranstoun,  at  that  period,  resided  at  Provi- 
dence, and  was,  we  believe,  the  wife  of  the  governor 
of  Providence  Plantations.  If  we  are  mistaken  in 
his  official  dignity,  we  are  not  in  the  fact,  that  he  is 
set  down  in  history  as  a  "notable  gentleman."  There 
was  living  with  Mrs.  Cranstoun,  a  dependant  on  her 
bounty,  an  orphan  niece  of  her  husband,  Amy  Crans- 
toun. Amy  had  the  figure  of  a  nymph,  and  a  face 
that  expressed  a  freedom  and  happiness  of  spirit  that 
even  dependance,  that  most  restricting  and  acidifying 
of  all  states,  could  never  subdue  nor  sour ;  and  an 


146  AMY    CRANSTOt'X. 

innocence  and  open-heartedness,  without  fear,  and 
without  reproach. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  elderly  persons  of  the 
strict  community  in  which  she  lived,  looked  upon  her 
as  a  very  unapproveable  and  unedifying  damsel ;  still 
she  had  the  miraculous  art  to  open  a  fountain  of  love 
in  their  hard  bound  bosoms.  She  had  the  irrepressi- 
ble gayety  of  a  child.  Her  elastic  step  seemed  to 
keep  time  with  the  harmonious  springs  of  youth  and 
joy.  At  all  times  and  seasons,  and,  it  must  be 
confessed,  without  any  very  reasonable  relation  to 
persons  or  circumstances,  her  musical  voice  would 
break  forth  in  song,  or  bursts  of  laughter — 

"  That  without  any  control, 
But  the  sweet  one  of  gracefulness,  rung  from  her  soul." 

Poor  Amy  often  offended  against  the  rigid  observances 
of  her  contemporaries.  She  would  gape,  and  even 
smile  in  the  midst  of  the  protracted  Sabbath-service, 
and  that  in  spite  of  the  bend  of  her  uncle's  awful 
brow,  her  aunt's  admonitory  winks,  and  the  plummet 
and  rule  example  of  her  cousins  —  maiden  ladies, 
some  fifteen  years  older  than  Amy,  who  were  so 
perpendicular  and  immoveable,  that  our  gay  little 
friend  sometimes  suspected  that  the  process  of  petri- 
faction had  begun  about  the  vital  region  of  their 
hearts.  Amy  had  a  wonderful  facility  in  committing 
to  memory  "ungodly  ballads  and  soul-enslaving 
songs,"  but  a  sort  of  intellectual  dyspepsia  when  she 
attempted  to  digest  sacred  literature.  She  never 
repeated  an  answer  accurately  in  the  assembly's 


AMY   CRANSTOUN  IO 

catechism ;  and  though  she  did  not,  as  is  reported 
of  those  "  afflicted  by  the  Salem  witches,"  faint  at 
the  reading  of  that  precious  little  treatise  entitled, 
"  Cotton's  Milk  for  Babes,"  she  was  sure  to  fall 
asleep  over  it,  the  very  opposite  effect  to  that  intended 
by  the  author  of  this  spiritual  food.  She  reached  the 
age  of  eighteen  without  acquiring  the  current  virtues 
of  her  day ;  but  her  beauty,  spirit,  or  sweet  temper, 
or  all  of  them  united,  attracted  more  suitors  than  her 
exemplary  and  well-proportioned  cousins  could  boast 
through  their  long  career.  Among  the  rest  came 
one  Uriah  Smith,  the  son  of  Deacon  Smith,  a  precious 
light  in  Boston.  Uriah  was  a  fair,  sleek,  softly 
looking  youth,  grave  and  deliberate,  and  addicted  to 
none  of  the  "  fooleries  and  braveries"  of  the  coxcombs 
of  the  day.  So  said  Madam  Cranstoun  to  Amy,  for 
Uriah  had  not,  like  young  Edwin,  "only bowed,"  but 
had  told  his  love  — not  to  the  niece,  but  most  discreetly 
to  the  aunt.  Madam  Cranstoun,  amazed  at  the 
wonder-working  Providence,  as  she  was  pleased  to 
term  it,  that  had  set  before  her  niece  the  prospect  of 
such  a  "companion,"  communicated,  to  Amy,  Uriah's 
proposition,  with  all  the  circumlocution  and  emphasis 
a  prime  minister  might  have  employed  to  announce  a 
royal  bounty  ;  but  most  ungraciously  did  Amy  receive 
it.  She  sat  the  while  calmly  drawing  with  her 
pencil  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  book,  her  face  unmoved, 
except  that  now  and  then  a  slight  but  ominous  smile 
drew  up  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "  Cousin  Amy ! 
cousin  Amy !"  exclaimed  her  aunt,  "  give  me  that 
book,  and  let  me  hear  you  testify  your  thankfulness 


143  AMY    CRANSTOUN. 

for  a  favor  of  which,  sooth  to  say,  you  are  abundantly 
unworthy." 

"  Well,  there  is  the  book,  aunt  Cranstoun,  and  let  it 
speak  for  your  '  unworthy'  niece." 

One  glance  at  the  pencilled  page  sufficed.  Amy 
had  delineated  there  a  striking  resemblance  of  the 
overgrown  angular  Rosinante,  on  which  Uriah  had 
rid  to  his  wooing,  and  for  the  rider  she  had  portrayed 
the  form  of  Uriah,  and  the  face  of  a  monkey! 
"  Shame  !  shame  to  you,  Amy !"  exclaimed  her  aunt, 
"  dare  you  thus  to  trifle  with  so  serious  a  subject  ?" 

"  The  subject  is  too  serious,  I  confess,  aunt,  to  be 
trifled  with,  and  therefore,  being  an  incorrigible 
trifler,  I  must  decline  it  altogether."  Madam  Cran- 
stoun stared  in  dumb  astonishment.  "  I  am  in 
earnest,  aunt,"  continued  Amy,  "Master  Uriah  must 
seek  a  more  suitable  helpmeet  than  your  foolish 
niece." 

"  Foolish  !  —  both  foolish  and  wicked,  Amy."  Ma- 
dam Cranstoun  lost  her  self-command.  "  Yea,  wicked, 
without  leave,  counsel,  and  consultation,  from  and 
with  those  who  have  given  you  shelter,  food,  and 
raiment  from  your  cradle,  blindly  and  scoffingly  to 
reject  this  little-to-be  expected,  and  most  unmerited 
provision  for  your  protection  and  maintenance 
through  life." 

Amy's  frivolity,  if  it  must  be  called  by  so  harsh  a 
name,  vanished,  while  half  indignant  and  halt 
subdued,  her  cheeks  burning,  and  tears  gushing 
from  her  eyes,  she  said — "For  food,  raiment,  and 
shelter,  and  for  every  kindly-spoken  word,  aunl 


AMY    CRAN3TOUN.  149 

Cranstoun,  the  only  child  of  your  husband's  sainted 
sister  thanks  you,  and  will,  please  God,  testify  her 
gratitude  for  your  past  bounty  by  every  act  of  duty 
and  devotion  to  you  and  yours.  But  I  implore 
you,  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  the  fatherless, 
not  to  drive  me  from  the  house  of  dependance  to 
a  house  of  bondage — the  vilest  bondage,  service 
without  love,  fetters  on  my  affection — joyous  would 
they  be  in  a  voluntary  service,  but  rebellious  and 
unprofitable  in  a  compelled  one." 

Madam  Cranstoun' s  heart  was  touched.  She 
perceived  there  was  reason  as  well  as  feeling  in 
Amy's  appeal.  "  Well — well,  child,"  she  said,  "  you 
know  I  do  not  wish  to  put  a  force  upon  you.  I  do  not, 
nor  ever  did,  feel  you  to  be  a  heavy  burden  on  us ; 
I  only  ask  you  to  take  the  proposition  of  Master  Uriah 
into  consideration,  and  try  to  love  him,  as  it  becometh 
a  virtuous  maiden  to  love  a  worthy  suitor." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  ask  me  to  do  any  thing  else,  but  indeed 
there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  love.  I  did  try,  and  for 
one  of  whom,  I  confess,  I  was  not  in  any  sort  worthy ; 
and  whom,  beforehand,  I  should  have  deemed  it  right 
easy  to  love,  but  the  more  I  tried  the  more  impossible 
I  found  it." 

"  And  for  whom,  I  pray  you,  did  you  make  this 
marvellous  trial?"  Amy  was  silent.  "Not,  I  am 
sure,  for  Master  James  Chilton? — nor  Nathaniel 
Goodeno?"  Amy  shook  her  head.  "And  you 
wouM  not,  Amy,"  continued  her  aunt  with  a  more 
scrutinizing  glance,  "  you  would  not  try  to  love  that 
lawless  young  spark — I  will  not  mention  his  name, 

13' 


160  AMY    CRANBTOUN. 

since  your  uncle  has  forbidden  it  to  be  spoken  within 
his  doors." 

Amy  felt  her  face  and  neck  flushing  and  burning, 
and  to  avert  the  right  inference  from  her  treacherous 
blushes,  she  did  what  may  be  most  pithily  expressed 
by  a  vulgar  proverb,  'jumped  out  of  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire.'  "  No,  no,  aunt,"  she  said,  "  he  to  whom 
I  allude  is  far — far  away,  and  has  I  trust  forgotten 
me." 

"  Surely — surely,  Amy,  you  do  not  mean  Wick- 
liffe  Wilson?" 

"  I  do,  aunt,"  replied  Amy,  with  an  irrepressible 
smile  that  abated  the  virtue  of  her  humble  tone  of 
voice. 

"  Oh,  Amy !"  exclaimed  her  aunt,  in  a  voice  of 
sorrow  and  rebuke,  "  you  amaze  and  distress  me.  I 
knew  you  to  be  giddy  and  trifling  to  a  degree,  but 
I  never  before  thought  you  senseless  and  hard- 
hearted." She  paused,  and  then  added,  as  if  a  sudden 
light  had  broken  upon  her,  "  Ah,  I  see  it  all  now ! 
Little  did  I  think  when  WicklifFe  was  spending  his 
precious  time,  day  after  day,  in  teaching  you  the 
tongues,  that  Satan  was  spreading  a  snare  for  him. 
How  could  the  learned  and  pious  youth  suffer  his 
affections  to  be  wasted  upon  such  a  piece  of  laughing 
idlesse!  Wickliffe  Wilson,  the  honored  son  of  an 
honored  sire !  the  gifted  youth !  the  hope  of  the 
plantation!  Amy,  Amy,  was  it  for  that  his  eye 
lacked  its  lustre,  his  cheek  became  sunken  and  pale, 
and  his  heart  waxed  faint !  —  love  of  you,  Amy, 
that  has  sent  him  forth  from  his  father's  house, 


AMY   CRAN8TOUN.  151 

and  from  his  native  land,  and  without  one  accusing 
word  or  look  ?" 

Amy  burst  into  tears.  "  He  was  most  generous," 
she  said,  "  I  would  have  done  any  thing  to  manifest 
my  gratitude  to  him,  and  as  I  truly  told  you,  aunt,  I 
did  try  in  earnest  to  love  him." 

"  O  pshaw,  child !  —  I  see  through  it  all.  You 
could  not  choose  but  have  loved  him,  had  not  your 
unbridled  affections  strayed  another  way.  The  sooner 
you  recall  them  the  better,  for  never  —  never  shall 
you  wed  with  Lovell  Reeve  —  a  foil,  a  contrast  truly 
to  the  worthy  youth  Wickliffe !" 

Thus  pursued,  Amy  turned  and  stood  at  bay. 
"  Aunt  Cranstoun,"  she  said,  "  worthy  and  noble  as 
Wickliffe  may  be,  and  I  grant  him  so,  Lovell  Reeve, 
in  all  gentlemanly  points,  in  all  high  sentiment  and 
right  feeling,  is  his  equal  —  his  equal  in  every  thing 
but  yours  and  my  uncle's  esteem ;  and  I  have  long 
believed,  without  the  courage  to  tell  you  so,  that  some 
one  has  traduced  him  to  you." 

"  Nay,  Amy,  his  own  ill  deeds  dispraise  him. 
Did  he  not  join  the  galliards  of  Boston,  in  their 
assemblings  for  dancing  and  other  forbidden  frolics  1 
Did  he  not  aid  and  abet  —  nay,  was  he  not  the  sole 
instigator  and  agent  in  conveying  dame  Hyslop 
beyond  the  Massachusetts,  after  it  was  well  nigh 
proven  that  she  was  the  confederate  and  vowed 
servant  of  Satan,  in  bewitching  Levi  Norton's 
children?  —  and  was  not  Ijovell  Reeve  foremost,  and 
ringleader  of  those  ungodly  youths,  who  discredited 
the  right  of  the  assistants,  and  openly  opposed  the 


152  AMY    CRANSTOtN. 

driving  forth  of  the  Quakers,  and  the  extirpation  of 
their  blasphemous  heresy?" 

"  I  believe,  aunt,  he  has  done  all  this." 

"  And  still  you  dare  to  even  him  with  one,  who  is  in 
full  communion  and  fair  standing  with  the  church, 
and  whose  walk  has  been,  like  pious  Samuel's,  even 
from  his  youth,  in  all  godliness." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  the  Scripture  says  there  be  divers  gifts ; 
Wickliffe's  are  not  Lovell's,  neither,  under  favor  I 
say  it,  are  Lovell's,  Wickliffe's.  And  now,"  she 
continued,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  her 
aunt,  and  clasping  her  hands,  "  Now,  my  dear  aunt, 
that  I  have  boldly  foregone  maidenly  modesty,  and 
spoken,  in  some  measure  as  I  feel,  of  my  true-love,  let 
me  plead  with  you,  by  all  your  care  for  my  well- 
being —  by  all  your  gentle,  womanly  thoughts  and 
memories  —  by  that  pure  and  interchanged  affection 
which  Lovell  and  I  have  plighted  before  God,  I 
beseech  ye  let  me  follow  the  biddings  of  my  heart, 
and  profess  before  the  world  what  I  have  revealed  to 
you,  instead  of  hiding  it  like  a  guilty  passion  in  the 
depths  of  my  heart  —  you  do  feel  for  us !  —  you 
cannot  help  it  —  Oh  speak  to  my  uncle." 

Amy  had  skilfully  touched  a  powerful  spring. 
Her  aunt  was  affected  by  her  half  voluntary  confi- 
dence ;  but  though  the  long  congealed  sources  of 
sympathy  were  softened,  they  were  not  melted,  and 
when  Amy  mentioned  her  uncle,  the  subject,  in 
Madam  Cranstoun,  reverted  to  its  old  light.  "  Rise, 
my  child,"  she  said,  "it  ill  becomes  you  to  put 
yourself  in  the  posture  of  a  silly  damsel  of  romance. 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  163 

Your  uncle  and  I  cannot  recede  from  a  decision 
made  after  due  and  prayerful  deliberation.  I  now 
perceive  that  you  are  apprised  of  the  youth  Lovell 
having  applied  to  us — not  as  lie  should  have  done 
before  communing  with  you, — for  leave  to  make  suit 
to  you,  to  which  we  answered  with  a  full  negative, 
and  stated  our  reasons  therefor,  which,  were  he  of  a 
right  temper,  would  have  been  satisfactory.  We 
have  fully  warned  him  not  to  urge  you  to  an  act  of 
disobedience,  and  secured  his  compliance  by  inform- 
ing him  that  any  marriage  bounty,  which  your  uncle 
might  purpose,  would  be  withheld  in  case  of  your 
failure  in  duty  due." 

"  You  mistake  his  spirit — he  spurned  the  threat, 
and  urged  me  to  forfeit  my  uncle's  gift ;  and  by  my 
troth,  aunt,  it  was  not  in  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  to 
hold  me  back,  but  I  did  fear  to  violate  my  duty 
to  you,  and  I  hoped  you  would  grant  my  prayer 
svhen  I  dared  to  make  it  to  you." 

"  Never,  Amy,  never.  I  commend  you  in  as  far 
is  you  have  acted  wisely  in  the  past ;  and  for  the 
future  I  command  you  to  dismiss  Lovell  Reeve  from 
your  mind." 

"  I  cannot.  I  may  control  the  outward  act,  but 
how  eradicate  the  image  blended  with  every  thought 
and  affection  ?" 

"  This  is  girlish  talk,  Amy.  Be  humble  and 
teachable,  child.  Remember  that  youth  ever  errs  in 
judgment.  Be  guided  by  those,  who  are  both  wise 
and  experienced ;  and  then,  Amy,  if  you  should  still 
be  privileged  with  the  favor  of  worthy  Master  Wick- 


I6i  AMY   CRANSTOUN. 

liffe's  love,  you  may  yet  be  mated  to  our  acceptance 
and  your  own  profit." 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  thought  Amy.  Her  aunt  proceed- 
ed, "  I  see  that  thou  art  self-willed,  but  take  heed — 
the  judgment  of  Heaven  may  light  upon  thee — 
consider  duly — go  to  thy  apartment,  and  commune 
with  thy  heart." 

Amy  obeyed  with  alacrity ;  for  in  these  commun 
ings  she  found  the  only  indulgence  of  an  affection, 
which  neither  her  conscience  nor  her  judgment 
forbad.  Amy's  conscience,  though  it  did  not  act  in 
obedience  to  the  laws  Madam  Cranstoun  would  have 
prescribed,  was  a  faithful  monitor,  and  Amy  was 
obedient  to  its  monitions.  Clandestine  proceedings 
were  abhorrent  to  the  integrity  of  her  character. 
Every  delicate  woman  instinctively  revolts  from  an 
elopement  and  a  secret  marriage.  Amy  had  maintain- 
ed a  firm  negative  to  Lo veil's  entreaties.  With  the 
confidence  of  her  most  happy  temper  she  believed 
that  some  favorable  circumstance  would  occur,  some 
influence  come,  she  knew  not  whence,  to  shift  the 
wind  in  her  favor.  But —  when  she  had  put  aside  her 
pride  and  her  maidenly  reserve,  and  freely  confessed 
her  love  to  her  aunt,  and  found  her  unrelenting,  and 
resolved  to  maintain  her  pOAver  in  its  utmost  rigor  — 
Amy  felt  a  spirit  of  insurrection  rising  in  her  heart, 
that  probably,  but  for  the  strange  events  that  followed, 
would  soon  have  broken  out  into  open  rebellion. 
There  were  throbbings  at  her  heart  at  the  thought  of 
escape  from  thraldom;  when,  at  this  treacherous 
moment,  a  servant  tapped  at  the  door  to  announce 


AMY   CRAN8TODN.  166 

"that  Wimple,  the  Boston  Pedlar,  was  in  the  hall 
with  his  box  full  of  nick-nacks,  that  he  was  sure 
wou'.d  pleasure  Miss  Amy's  eye." 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Amy,  in  a  tone  that  indicated 
nothing  could  pleasure  her  at  that  moment,  "  tell  him 
I  want  nothing." 

"  Pray  do  not  send  him  that  word,  Miss  Amy !  — 
Madam  has  huffed  him  already ;  and  Miss  Prudence 
and  Miss  Tempy  have  bought  nothing  but  knives  and 
whalebones.  They  were  sharp  and  stiff  enough 
already ! — and  besides,  Wimple  bade  me  tell  you  he 
has  a  violet  ribbon,  just  the  color  of  your  eyes." 

Perhaps  curious  to  ascertain  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
or  it  may  be,  like  most  frail  mortals,  not  deaf  to 
flattery,  Amy  descended  to  the  hall.  She  found  her 
aunt  and  cousins,  attracted  by  the  pretty  assortment 
of  merchandise,  still  hovering  about  the  pedlar's  box, 
inquiring  prices,  cheapening  the  articles  they  meant 
to  buy,  and  vouchsafing  a  few  grains  of  praise  to 
such  as  they  did  not  want. 

"  Ah,  my  service  to  you,  Mistress  Amy,"  said 
Wimple,  "  it  would  be  ill  luck  to  my  box  to  leave  the 
plantations  without  seeing  you." 

"  And  ill  fortune  to  me,  Wimple.  But  where  is 
the  ribbon  Judith  told  me  of!" 

"The  ribbon! — what  ribbon,  my  young  lady?  — 
ah,  I  remember,"  added  Wimple,  as  the  luring 
message  he  had  transmitted  recurred  to  him,  "k 
should  be  here — or  here — it  was  of  the  violet  dye, 
young  lady — the  flower — and  something  else  I've 
seen — looks  as  if  a  drop  from  the  blue  sky  had 


156  AMY    CRAN8TOUN. 

fallen  into  it — the  ribbon  is  clean  gone,  but  here  is  a 
pair  of  gloves,  a  nice  fit  for  you." 

"  They  are  just  the  color  I  have  been  looking  for, 
for  a  full  half  hour  to  no  purpose,"  said  Miss 
Prudence,  "  so  it  is  but  fair  I  should  have  the  first 
trial." 

Wimple  looked  disconcerted — "  Indeed,  my  young 
lady,"  he  said,  with  a  discreet  emphasis  on  young,  not 
enough  to  imply  sarcasm,  and  just  enough  to  seem 
earnest,  "  indeed,  my  young  lady,  they  are  a  though! 
too  small  for  you,"  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
he  adroitly  measured  the  glove  against  the  back  ol 
Miss  Prudence's  broad,  sinewy  hand ;  she  turned 
away  satisfied,  or  piqued.  Wimple,  too  politic  to 
leave  a  shadow  on  the  rnind  of  a  customer,  added, 
"  I  will  suit  you,  Miss  Prudy,  next  time,  for  one  of  my 
brethren  in  the  walking  line,  is  expected  from  Acadie 
with  French  nackeries,  and  he'll  be  sure  to  bring 
gloves; — such  as  these  with  pretty  devices  are  much 
sought  after,  by  the  Boston  gallants,  for  love-tokens.' 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  gloves  before  you  purchase,' 
interposed  Madam  Cranstoun,  whose  ear  was  offendeb 
by  Wimple's  professional  vaunt ;  "  I  do  not  approve* 
these  braveries  that  feed  vanity,  and  draw  truant  eyes 
at  meeting." 

Wimple  adroitly  exchanged  the  gloves  designed 
for  Amy,  for  a  pair  embroidered  with  a  monumental 
device,  saying,  "Madam  Cranstoun  will  certainly 
approve  the  wholesome  lesson  wisely  wrought  here." 

Madam  Cranstoun  returned  the  gloves  with  a  cold 
remark,  that  she  believed  they  would  do  no  harm; 


AMY   CRANSTOUN.  1ST 

and  Wimple  unsuspected  slipped  the  right  pair  into 
Amy's  hand,  contriving  as  he  did  so  to  let  her  see  the 
corner  of  a  note  within  the  glove.  "  Never  mind  the 
pay  this  time,  Mistress  Amy,"  he  said.  Amy  under- 
stood him,  dropped  a  silver  penny  in  his  hand,  and 
quickly  disappeared.  She  then  returned  to  her  room, 
bolted  her  door,  and  kissing  the  gloves, — those  fated 
gloves — she  read  the  following  note:  "  My  beloved 
Amy;  and  yet  how  mine,  since  your  own  cruel 
sentence  makes  those  barriers  impassable  which 
tyranny  has  erected  ?  Still  you  are  mine  by  your 
own  most  precious  confession ;  by  vows  registered  in 
Heaven,  and  which  not  all  the  power  of  all  the 
uncles  and  aunts  in  Christendom  can  make  void.  I 
have  something  to  communicate  that  I  cannot  trust  to 
paper — meet  me,  I  beseech  you,  on  Tuesday  the  5th, 
at  7  o'clock,  P.  M.,  under  the  elm  tree,  just  beyond 
the  cove.  If  you  refuse  me  this  boon,  I  shall  fear  the 
freezing  atmosphere  in  which  you  live  has  chilled 
the  warm  precincts  of  your  heart.  At  seven,  dear 
Amy, — remember,  7  P.  M.  of  Tuesday  the  5th — 
farewell  till  then." 

"  Tuesday  the  5th"  had  come,  and  "  7  P.  M." 
drew  nigh,  when  Amy  put  on  the  memorable 
gloves,  which  were  wrought  with  a  bunch  of  forget- 
me-nots,  tied  with  a  true-love  knot ;  and  shelter- 
ing herself  in  a  <krk  silk  cloak  and  hood,  she 
eluded  all  the  argus  eyes  about  the  mansion,  and 
reached  the  place  of  rendezvous.  "He  is  not  here !" 
fche  exclaimed,  as  her  foot  touched  the  spot ;  "  there  is 
yet  one  minute  to  spare,"  she  added,  looking  at  her 


166  AMY    CRANhfOUN. 

watch ;  "  yet  it  should  have  been  Lovell,  not  I,  who 
came  the  minute  too  soon — next  time,"  she.  concluded, 
drawing  off  one  of  her  gloves,  "  Lovell  shall  wear 
the  forget-me-not." 

Poor  Lovell  1  he  would  not  have  broken  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  his  appointment ;  but 
the  most  faithful  are  not  exempted  from  the  cross 
accidents  of  life.  His  horse,  in  passing  a  treacherous 
causeway,  had  broken  his  leg.  Lovell  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  abandon  him,  and  hurried  on  with  all  the 
speed  that  vigorous  and  agile  limbs,  and  a  most 
impatient  spirit,  could  supply ;  but  even  love  cannot 
travel  like  a  sound  horse,  and  when  Lovell  reached 
the  cove  it  was  a  quarter  past  seven.  There  was 
still  enough  of  twilight  left,  for  him  to  discern  the 
print  of  Amy's  little  foot  on  the  white  sand.  He  bent 
and  kissed  it,  then  sprang  up  the  bank  and  onward 
to  the  elm-tree — she  was  not  there!  He  thought 
that  in  the  spirit  of  a  sportive  retaliation  for  his 
delay,  she  might  have  hidden  in  some  shaded 
recess.  He  explored  every  recess,  penetrated  every 
possible  hiding-place,  he  pronounced,  and  imploringly 
repeated,  her  name,  but  all  in  vain.  "  She  must  have 
been  here!"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  could  not  mistake  the 
print  of  any  other  foot  for  her's — Oh  Amy,  could 
you  not  wait  one  quarter  of  an  hour  for  me !  —  Can 
any  thing  have  happened  to  her? — She  may  have 
been  followed  hither  by  some  evil-minded  person!" 
Apprehensions  accumulate  most  rapidly  where  the 
safety  of  a  defenceless  object,  and  the  dearest  one  in 
life,  is  at  stake.  Lovell  reiterated  Amy's  name  in  a 


AMY   CRAN8TOUN.  109 

voice  of  agony ;  he  looked  over,  again  and  again,  the 
places  he  »had  already  thoroughly  searched ;  he  then 
returned  to  the  cove,  there  was  no  mark  there  of  a 
returning  footstep;  she  could  not  then  have  gone 
back  that  way.  He  remounted  the  bank,  intending 
to  extend  his  search  farther  up  the  river.  After 
passing  some  willows,  the  shore  was  rocky,  and  just 
beyond  the  rocks  was  a  thicket  of  saplings,  and 
tangled  bushes  that  led  to  the  water's  edge.  "  She 
could  not  have  passed  here,"  he  said.  Something 
caught  his  eye  at  the  bottom  of  the  rock.  He  descend- 
ed, and  just  on  the  margin  of  the  river  he  found  one 
of  Amy's  gloves,  one  of  the  pair  which  he  had  sent 
by  Wimple,  and  on  the  sand  was  imprinted  the  mark 
of  a  small  foot,  that  must  have  been  recently  there. 
His  head  became  giddy  with  terrific  apprehensions, 
and  now,  as  he  looked  up  the  rock,  he  saw  the  fibrous 
plants  that  grew  from  their  fissures  had  been  freshly 
uprooted,  and  appeared  as  if  their  insufficient  aid  had 
been  resorted  to.  The  mind  will  not  at  once  surren- 
der itself  to  despair.  It  was  barely  possible  that  some 
acquaintance  had  been  sailing  on  the  river,  and  that, 
to  avoid  surmises,  Amy  had  returned  to  town  in  the 
boat.  But  there  was  the  glove!  —  Amy  would  not 
have  carelessly  dropped  his  love-token — and  the 
uprooted  plants !  Still  there  was  a  ray  of  hope,  and 
in  one  half  hour  Lovell  burst  into  Governor  Cran- 
stoun's  parlor,  and  darting  his  eye  around  the  formal 
circle,  he  explained  its  glance  by  asking  in  one 
breath,  "Is  Amy  here? — has  she  returned  ?-— has 
no  one  seen  her  ?"  The  family  all  rose,  startled  at 


160  AMY   CRANSTOUN. 

his  wild  appearance.  "  Is  the  youth  crazy  ?"  asked 
Madam  Cranstoun.  * 

"  This  intrusion  is  unlocked  for,  and  manifestly 
indecorous  !"  said  the  governor. 

"  Will  no  one  answer  me?"  exclaimed  Lovell,  and 
snatching  a  hand-bell  from  the  table,  he  returned  to 
the  hall  and  rang  it  furiously.  The  servants,  alarmed, 
obeyed  the  summons.  "  Have  any  of  you  seen 
Mistress  Amy?"  he  adced,  "and  when? — and 
where?"  All  looked  amazed,  none  answered.  "For 
the  love  of  Heaven  speak, — go  to  her  room — search 
every  where." 

"  Hold,  young  man !"  said  Governor  Cranstoun, 
"  you  are  mad." 

"  Mad?  —  I  shall  be  mad !  — she  is  lost !  —  it  may 
be,  murdered." 

The  last  word,  articulated  as  it  was  in  a  broken 
and  suppressed  voice,  penetrated  to  every  heart,  and 
instantly  every  mouth  was  opened,  every  room  was 
searched,  and  every  corner  of  the  mansion  in  an 
uproar  and  confusion. 

"  I  saw  her  before  tea,"  said  one.  "  I  saw  her  go 
out  the  side  gate!"  said  another. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Prudence,  "  and  I  saw  her  from 
my  window,  and  thought  then  she  was  going  on  a 
wild  goose  chase." 

The  alarm  soon  spread  from  the  governor's  family 
to  the  town ;  alarm-bells  were  rung,  and  the  men  in 
separate  and  small  bands  went  out  on  a  scout  in 
every  direction.  The  search  was  continued  for  days, 
and  not  relinquished  till  neither  reason  nor  hope  held 


AMY    CRAN8TOUN.  J« 

out  the  slightest  probability  of  success.  But  after  the 
people  had  returned  to  their  usual  occupations,  and 
Amy's  disappearance  had  become  an  old  story,  it 
continued  to  be  as  acutely  felt  by  Lovell  Reeve,  as  at 
the  first  terrible  moment  of  conviction  that  she  was 
gone.  He  abandoned  his  ordinary  pursuits,  forsook 
his  accustomed  haunts ;  and  worn  and  wasted  wander- 
ed over  the  country,  seeking  and  inquiring,  but 
finding  nothing  to  feed  his  hopes,  which  were  only 
kept  alive  by  the  undying  fires  of  love.  Amy's 
disappearance  was  just  about  the  period  of  the  death 
of  the  heroic  Indian,  king  Philip.  A  few  of  his  old 
comrades  still  maintained  a  feeble  resistance  to  the 
English.  Lovell  sometimes  encountered  their  parties 
in  the  fastnesses  of  the  savage  forests.  They  answer- 
ed his  questions  patiently,  and  treated  him  kindly; 
probably  his  wild  and  haggard  aspect  impressed  them 
with  the  belief  that  he  was  suffering  from  one  of 
those  visitations  of  Heaven,  which  elicit  far  more 
tenderness  and  respect  from  the  sMrage  than  the 
civilized  man.  On  one  occasion,  at  late  twilight,  he 
had  thrown  himself  down  in  a  little  nook  made  by 
the  turning  of  a  brook  that  ran  rambling  past  it,  and 
wearied  and  exhausted  he  had  opened  his  wallet, 
when  he  heard  some  one  striding  down  the  rocky 
hill  above  him.  From  the  dimensions  of  the  figure 
he  mistook  it  for  that  of  a  man,  but  as  it  approached 
nearer,  he  perceived  it  to  be  a  young  Indian  woman. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back,  her  brow  painfully 
contracted,  and  her  eye  fixed,  and  indicating  a  mind 
abstracted  from  all  outward  things.  She  threw 


162  AMY    CRANSTOUN. 

herself  on  the  ground,  almost  at  the  feet  of  Loveli, 
without  seeing  him.  Her  cheek  was  hollow,  ana 
her  limbs  tremulous ;  but  she  seemed  as  if  some 
passionate  grief  obscured  the  sense  of  corporeal 
wants.  Loveli  spoke  to  her ;  asked  her  whither  she 
came?  where  she  was  going?  to  which  she  replied, 
in  such  imperfect  English,  that  she  conveyed  no  mean- 
ing to  Loveli.  One  word  alone  he  understood,  and 
that  was  the  name  of  the  famous  Annowon,  the  Indian 
chieftain,  who  had  been  the  companion  of  Philip's 
father,  the  tried  and  trusted  associate  of  Philip  himself, 
and  who,  still  unsubdued,  though  hunted  like  a  beast 
of  prey,  maintained  his  national  independance  in  the 
gloomy  depth  of  a  forest — all  that  was  left  of  the 
wide  domain  inherited  from  his  fathers. 

Loveli  offered  the  woman  a  portion  of  his  evening 
meal;  she  took  it  eagerly,  devouring  it  ravenously, 
and  then  drawing  her  blanket  over  her  head,  she 
pillowed  it  on  the  rock,  and  was  soon  lost  in  deep 
sleep.  Poor  Loveli  envied  her  short  oblivion,  and 
continued,  hour  after  hour,  watching  the  stars  on 
their  courses,  till  at  last  nature  overcoming  his  sense 
of  misery,  he  too  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke  in  the 
morning,  the  Indian  woman  had  disappeared.  On 
the  crushed  grass  where  she  had  lain  there  was 
something  that  quickened  Lo veil's  pulses.  He  sprang 
forward,  seized,  and  examined  it — it  was  Amy's 
glove.  The  mate  he  had  worn  in  his  bosom,  from 
the  fatal  hour  of  her  disappearance.  But  alas !  the 
woman  who  had  possessed  this  clew  had  gone. 
He  shouted,  he  ran  hither  and  yon,  calling  in  the 


AMY   CRANSTOUN.  1« 

most  supplicating  voice,  but  he  was  only  answered  by 
the  forest  echoes.  He  had,  however,  obtained  some 
light ;  and  vague,  and  feeble  as  it  was,  it  might  prove 
a  guiding  beam  over  the  weary  waste  that  had 
encompassed  him.  Annowon  either  did  possess  the 
secret  of  Amy's  fate,  or  could  command  it.  This 
conclusion  made,  Lovell  instantly  conceived  a  project, 
and  set  forward  to  execute  it. 


We  return  to  where  we  left  our  little  friend  Amy. 
She  was  startled  from  her  mental  reproaches  of  her 
lover  by  the  plash  of  oars,  and,  turning,  she  saw  a 
canoe  rowing  through  the  cove,  and  stealthily  close 
into  the  shore.  There  were  two  Indians  in  the  canoe, 
but  as  there  were  many  friendly  natives  in  the 
vicinity  of  Providence,  she  was  not  alarmed  till  the 
canoe,  having  turned  the  ledge  of  rocks  and  disap- 
peared, she  saw  the  Indians  coming  up  the  bank 
towards  her.  Escape  was  impossible.  The  one  was 
an  old  man,  the  other  a  youth.  The  young  man 
asked  her  to  come  with  them.  The  elder,  without 
ceremony,  seized  her  arm  and  dragged  her  forward. 
She  resisted  with  all  her  might,  shrieking  the  name 
of  Lovell,  and  vainly  hoping  he  might  be  near 
enough  to  hear  her  voice,  but  that  hope  soon  vanish- 
ed. She  was  thrust  into  the  canoe,  and  it  was  rapidly 
rowed  down  the  stream  to  a  swampy  landing-place, 
where  the  Indians  disembarked,  drew  their  canoe  up 
into  the  thicket,  and  began  their  scramble  through 


164  AMY   CRANSTOUN. 

the  morass.  In  the  short  time  that  had  passed  since 
Amy  had  relinquished  the  hope  of  a  rescue,  she  had, 
with  her  strong  native  good  sense,  surveyed  her 
position,  and  made  up  her  mind  as  to  her  mode  of 
conduct.  In  carrying  her  resolve  into  execution  she 
was  sustained  by  an  unconquerable,  a  Heaven- 
inspired  cheerfulness  of  spirit,  that  like  a  clear 
meridian  sun  brightened  even  the  darkest  objects. 
Poor  girl !  she  needed  all  its  power.  The  Indians 
were  amazed  to  see  her,  instead  of  lagging,  press 
forward  without  a  word  or  sigh  of  complaint.  The 
elder  of  her  captors  she  soon  ascertained  to  be  the 
far-famed  Annowon,  now  verging  to  old  age,  but  still 
retaining  many  of  the  attributes  of  vigorous  manhood, 
a  fiery  eye,  an  upright  person,  and  a  firm  step ;  the 
younger  was  Mantunno,  a  young  man  of  two  and 
twenty,  an  exception  to,  rather  than  a  specimen  of  his 
race.  His  aspect  was  that  of  a  man  of  peace  and 
gentleness.  His  voice  was  sympathetic,  as  he  ever 
and  anon  cheered  on  his  captive,  and  where  the 
passes  were  most  difficult  he  carried  her,  sinking  to 
his  knees  in  the  bogs,  till  he  reached  a  firm  foot-hold. 
Thus  they  proceeded  till  they  approached  a  place, 
which  still,  after  the  passage  of  more  than  a  century 
and  a  half,  retains  the  name  of  "  Annowon' s  rock." 
This  rock,  or  rather  ledge  of  rocks,  for  if  extends 
from  70  to  80  feet,  was  then  inaccessible  except  from 
one  point,  being  nearly  surrounded  by  a  morass, 
which,  before  the  land  was  drained,  was  covered  with 
water.  Near  its  base  the  rocks  have  deep  recesses 
and  shelving  places,  and  being  well  hedged  in  with 


AMY    CIIANSTOUN.  165 

felled  trees  and  dried  bushes,  they  afforded  a  sort  of 
sheltering  nest  for  these  wild  denizens  of  the  woods. 
A  beacon-light  had  penetrated  through  the  tangled 
wood,  guiding  Amy's  step  over  the  slippery  rocks 
and  trembling  mosses,  but  the  way  suddenly  became 
more  difficult;  the  poor  girl's  heart  of  grace  failed, 
and  exhausted  she  sunk  down  and  burst  into  tears. 
The  old  Indian  muttered,  "  Telula  cry  ?  —  never." 

"  Telula  no  woman,"  replied  the  young  man,  and 
taking  our  poor  little  friend  in  his  arms,  he  strided  on 
through  bush  and  through  brake,  till  emerging 
suddenly,  they  came  upon  the  access  to  their  wild 
resting-place,  and  as  the  now  unimpeded  light  stream- 
ed cheerfully  up  from  it  and  shone  on  Amy's  face, 
Mantunno  saw  there  a  tolerably  successful  effort  at  a 
smile  of  gratitude,  which  went  very  near  to  his  heart. 
Refreshed  by  her  rest  in  the  Indian's  arms,  and 
encouraged  by  his  kindness,  and  perhaps  too,  stimu- 
lated by  the  wildness  and  novelty  of  the  scene, — for 
Amy's  was  a  somewhat  romantic  and  most  buoyant 
spirit, — she  descended  the  ledge  of  rocks,  sometimes 
upheld  by  Mantunno,  sometimes  sustaining  herself  on 
a  foothold  that  seemed  scarcely  qualified  to  afford  sup- 
port for  a  bird,  and  sometimes  holding  fast  by  branches 
of  the  trees  that  here  and  there  had  forced  themselves 
through  the  crevices  of  the  rocks.  Thus  she  reached 
safely  the  broad  base  of  the  ledge,  and  looking  around 
her  at  various  distances,  and  imperfectly,  as  the  fire- 
light glanced  athwart  them,  she  saw  small  groups 
of  Indians.  Near  her  a  bright  fire  was  burning 
under  a  caldron,  from  which  issued  fumes  so  savory, 


166  AMY   CRANSTOUN. 

that  considering  the  gross  appetites  of  which  common 
souls  are  compounded,  they  would  have  been  much 
more  like,  than  those  strains  the  poet  magnifies,  to 
"create  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death."  Tending 
this  caldron  was  a  tall,  bony  Indian  girl ;  her  features 
were  large,  and  expressive  of  turbulent  passions,  but 
without  a  particle  of  the  feminine  softness  that  is 
common  to  young  women  of  all  hues. 

She  looked  like  a  vulture,  eager  to  grasp  a  dove  in 
its  talons,  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  poor  little  Amy. 
Some  broken  sentences  she  spoke  to  the  youth,  in  her 
native  tongue,  complaining  of  his  protracted  absence 
and  her  wearisome  solitude,  and  then  turned  her  eye 
again  on  Amy,  as  if  she  longed  to  know,  but  would 
not  ask,  why  that  little  garden-blossom  had  been 
brought  to  their  wild  home. 

Mantunno  neither  heeded  her  words  nor  her  looks. 
He  was  busied  in  making  a  bed  of  dry  mosses  and 
leaves  for  his  captive,  and  forming  a  bower  for  her, 
by  interweaving  branches  of  the  hemlocks  and  cedars 
that  were  growing  in  abundance  around  them. 

Annowon  called  loudly  for  supper,  and  Telula 
served  it,  but  without  eating  herself  or  offering  a 
portion  to  Amy  till  bidden  by  Annowon,  when  she 
filled  a  wooden  trencher  and  set  it  before  her,  and 
Amy,  in  pursuance  of  her  resolution  to  sustain  her 
strength  and  spirits  by  all  human  means,  and  we 
suspect  befriended  by  an  honest  appetite;  ate  as 
heartily  as  if  she  had  been  at  her  uncle's  table — the 
best  in  'Providence  Plantations.'  After  she  had 
finished  her  singular  meal,  she  thanked  Mantunno 


AMY   CRANSTOCN.  107 

for  the  bed  he  had  spread  for  her,  bade  him  "  good 
night,"  in  the  sweetest  tone  of  her  sweet  voice,  and 
crept  into  her  little  bower,  where,  after  commending 
herself  to  God,  she  fell  asleep,  pondering  over  the 
chances  of  reunion  to  Lovell  Reeve.  Oh,  what 
lessons  may  be  learned  from  those  who  act  according 
to  the  dictates  of  wise  nature ! 

Mantunno  laid  himself  down  at  a  little  distance 
from  Amy's  bower,  and  long  into  the  watches  of  the 
night  Telula  observed  his  wakeful  eye  fixed  on  it,  as  a 
miser  watches  the  casket  that  contains  his  treasure. 
But  when  at  last  his  senses  were  locked  in  sleep, 
Telula  drew  near  the  old  man,  who,  as  he  sat  leaning 
against  the  rock,  looked  like  a  portion  of  it,  so  rigid 
were  his  features,  so  sharp  and  immoveable  the 
outline  of  his  bony  figure.  "  Father,"  asked  Telula, 
in  her  own  language,  "  is  this  Yengee  girl  yours,  01 
Mantunno's  captive?" 

"  Mine." 

"  My  father  is  wise  !  — "  said  Telula,  in  that  tone 
which  converts  an  affirmation  into  a  negative. 

"  And  why  am  I  not  wise,  Telula." 

"  Was  I  not  wretched  enough  yesterday  ?" 

"  And  why  more  wretched  now  ?" 

"  Did  he  ever  pile  the  mosses  for  my  head  to  rest 
upon? — Did  he  ever  weave  a  curtain  around  my 
bed? — Did  he  ever  watch  my  sleep  as  the  eagle 
watches  its  nestling?  Mantunno's  soul  is  as  the 
pale-faces !  He  would  fain  mate  with  them," 

"  What  mean  you,  Telula?" 


168  AMY    CRANSTOUN. 

"  This  girl ! — this  girl ! — why  did  ye  bring  her 
hither?" 

The  vehement  tones  of  Telula's  voice,  and  the 
flood  of  tears  she  poured  out,  seemed,  rather  than  her 
words,  to  have  conveyed  her  meaning  to  the  old  man. 
He  fixed  his  eye  on  her  and  said,  "  Ye  would  not 
surely  wed  your  mother's  sister's  son  ?" 

"  I  would." 

"  This  is  worse  than  all ! — I  charge  ye,  Telula,  as 
you  love  your  life,  never  to  speak — never  to  think  of 
this  again." 

"  I  cannot  obey  you."  Both  reverted  to  silence ; 
but  the  subject  was  for  ever  fixed  in  the  minds  of 
both.  The  marriage  of  cousins  was  regarded  as  an 
abomination  by  some,  if  not  by  all  the  Indian  tribes, 
and  their  strict  adherence  to  the  Hebrew  law  in  this 
particular  is  urged  by  some  of  our  antiquaries  as 
among  the  proofs  of  their  descent  from  the  ten  lost 
tribes.  Annowon  had  met  with  losses  and  miseries 
in  every  shape.  His  wives  were  dead — his  children 
had  gone  like  flowers  from  the  hill-side — his  people 
had  vanished — his  brother  Philip  had  been  slain  in 
battle,  and  his  body  hacked  in  pieces  by  the  sacrile- 
gious knives  of  the  Yengees — and  some  fifty  followers, 
and  this  barren  rock  on  which  the  sun  shone,  and 
the  showers  fell  in  vain,  was  all  that  was  left  of 
his  tribe  and  their  wide  domain;  and  now  this 
unlawful  passion  of  the  last  of  his  race  seemed  to 
him  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  sorrows. 

He  had  seized  Amy  from  an  impulse  of  hostility 
to  her  race ;  he  had  learned  from  her  her  high  con- 


AMY   CRANSTOUN.  169 

nexions,  and  he  now  purposed  either  to  make  her  a 
victim  of  his  vengeance,  or  an  instrument  in  obtaining 
his  own  terms  in  the  treaty  that,  in  his  moments  of 
despair,  he  contemplated  making  with  the  English. 
In  the  mean  time,  if  Amy  could  be  made  to  subserve 
the  purpose  of  extinguishing  Telula's  hopes  and 
affection,  so  much  the  better ; — her  hopes,  she  might ; 
her  affection,  as  it  proved,  could  outlive  hope. 

When  Amy  awoke,  she  felt,  as  every  one  does  in 
coming  out  of  the  kind  oblivion  of  sleep,  the  full 
weight  of  her  calamity.  She  seemed  translated  to  a 
new  world.  Every  object  around  her  was  savage, 
and  the  Indians  themselves  seemed,  not  creatures  of 
her  kind,  but  meet  offspring  of  the  rocks  and  tangled 
forest.  But  as  the  morning  advanced  her  courage 
returned.  As  she  felt  the  cheering  influence  of  the 
sun,  and  heard  the  notes  of  familiar  birds — the  voices 
of  old  friends — her  spirit  revived,  and  she  came  forth 
from  her  bower  so  serene,  bright,  and  beautiful,  that 
Mantunno  exclaimed,  in  his  own  language,  "  The 
morning  star !"  Telula's  jealous  ear  caught  the 
words,  and  she  darted  a  glance  first  at  Amy,  and  then 
at  him,  that  made  her  recoil,  and  filled  him  with 
alarm.  He  was  aware  of  Telula's  strong  passions, 
he  was  aware  of  her  love  for  him,  and  that  one  look 
had  revealed  to  him  what  she  might  feel  towards  a 
rival. 

Day  after  day  passed  on,  and  he  never  left  the  rock 
save  when  he  was  sure  that  his  grandfather's  presence 
secured  Amy's  safety.  Telula  saw  his  distrust, 
and  it  sunk  deep  into  her  soul.  When  he  was 


170  AMY    CRANSTOUX. 

present,  his  eye  continually  rested  on  Amy ;  when  he 
was  absent,  it  was  plain  his  heart  still  lingered  with 
her.  The  brilliant  feathers  of  birds,  their  curious 
eggs,  wild  flowers,  and  every  pretty  treasure  of  the 
forest,  were  laid  at  her  feet,  and  Mantunno  was 
sufficiently  rewarded  with  a  kindly  beam  of  Amy's 
blue  eye,  or  a  faint  smile  from  her  bright  lip,  when 
Telula  felt  that  she  would  have  given  life  for  one 
such  proof  of  his  love.  The  miserable  girl's  jealousy 
was  inflamed  in  every  way.  The  old  man  permitted 
and  encouraged  Mantunno's  devotion,  and  Amy, 
believing,  from  her  own  experience,  love  to  be  the 
most  generous  of  all  sentiments,  cherished  it  by 
smiles  and  kindness.  Telula  neither  ate  nor  slept. 
Her  form  wasted,  and  her  face  became  so  haggard, 
that  Amy  shrunk  from  her  as  from  some  blighting 
demon. 

One  evening,  just  at  twilight,  Mantunno  and  Amy 
were  alone  together.  It  was  a  rare  chance,  and  Amy 
eagerly  seized  it  to  urge  a  suit  she  had  long  medi- 
tated. She  entreated  the  young  Indian,  by  all  his 
love  of  his  own  people  and  kindred — by  all  his 
friendship  for  her,  to  guide  her  back  to  her  home. 

"  But,"  he  tenderly  remonstrated,  "  you  have 
neither  father  nor  mother,  sister  nor  brother — they 
make  home."  Amy  wept  bitterly.  "  Oh!"  he  con- 
tinued, in  the  universal  language  of  loving  nature, 
"  let  my  home  be  thy  home,  and  my  people  thy 
people!" 

Amy  was  rather  stunned  by  this  proposition. 
She  soon  recovered  her  self-possession,  and  replied 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  171 

courageously,  "  Mantunno,  I  have  not,  it  is  true, 
father  nor  mother,  sister  nor  brother,  but  there  is  one 
dearer  to  me  than  all  these,  and  I  am  his  promised 
bride."  The  Indian  threw  himself  on  the  ground, 
and  wished  he  were  dead. 

At  this  moment  Telula,  returning  from  a  half 
frenzied  wandering,  had  let  herself  down  the  rocks, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  them,  but  unseen  and  unheard  by 
them.  She  heard  Amy  say,  as  she  approached  near 
them,  "  Oh  rise,  my  good  friend,  I  shall  always  love 
you  for  your  kindness" 

Telula  did  not  wait  to  hear  her  out.  One  word 
only,  love,  of  which  she  felt  the  full  import,  penetrated 
to  her  brain.  She  instantly  resolved  on  a  project,  to 
which,  though  most  abhorrent  to  her  national  feel- 
ings, she  was  stimulated  by  her  resentment  towards 
Annowon,  and  by  the  maddening  passions  of  love 
and  jealousy.  She  sprang  towards  Amy,  tore  apart 
a  ribbon,  by  which  was  suspended  the  glove,  LovelPs 
precious  gift,  and  thrusting  it  into  her  own  bosom, 
mounted  the  rock  like  a  wild-cat,  and  went  forth 
brooding  on  her  purpose,  in  her  better  mind  dismiss- 
ing it,  and  then  again  goaded  on  by  her  insane 
passion,  seeking  the  means  of  its  execution. 

Old  Annowon  was  afflicted  and  soured  by  Telula's 
protracted  absence.  He  became  sullen  and  crabbed, 
and  wreaked  his  bitter  feelings  on  poor  Amy.  He 
imposed  domestic  offices  on  her,  compelled  her  to 
bring  water,  and  feed  the  fire.  Mantunno  saw  her 
fragile  form  bending  under  burdens;  he  felt,  like  the 
lover  in  the  play,  that  "  such  baseness  ne'er  had  like 


172  AMY  CRAN8TOUN. 

executor,"  and  fain  would  he  have  given  the  strongest 
proof  of  love  a  savage  could  give,  by  performing 
these  ignoble,  womanly  offices  himself;  but  the  old 
man  harshly  forbade  him,  and  asked  him  "  when  it 
was  he  served  Telula?" 

Poor  Amy's  heart  sunk  as  her  hopes  abated.  She 
was  yet  far  from  despairing,  but  each  day  seemed  an 
age  to  her.  Mantunno's  kindness  was  undiminished, 
but  now  her  soul  revolted  from  it ;  even  the  crabbed- 
ness  of  the  old  man  was  more  tolerable  to  her.  Still, 
save  in  the  tears  that  would  unbidden  now  and  then 
steal  from  her  eyes,  she  did  not  betray  the  sadness  of 
her  heart. 

Two  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  nothing  was  yet 
heard  of  Telula,  though  Annowon  had  sought  her  in 
all  the  forest  haunts  of  his  dispersed  and  hunted  tribe. 
He  returned  one  night,  wearied,  and  more  sad  than 
sullen,  threw  himself  on  his  mat.-  Amy  heard  him 
groaning,  and  at  intervals  repeating  the  same  words, 
"  What  says  he  ?"  she  asked  of  Mantunno. 

He  repeats,  "  my  people !  my  children !  Telula ! 
all  gone !"  With  the  instinct  of  her  sex,  Amy  tried 
to  comfort  him.  She  offered  him  his  favorite  drink, 
unbidden  prepared  his  evening  meal,  and,  with 
earnest  words,  prayed  him  to  take  it.  He  declined 
her  kindness,  but  he  seemed  touched  by  it,  and 
drawing  her  towards  him,  he  said,  "Ah,  child,  bright 
days  are  written  on  thy  smooth  brow,  and  the  promise 
of  friends  and  lovers  stamped  on  thy  beautiful  face." 

"  Oh,  then,"  said  Amy,  eagerly  availing  herself  of 
the  first  auspicious  moment,  "restore  me  to  my 


AMY    CRANSTOUN.  173 

friends — do  not  make  me  wear  out  my  life  in 
bondage  and  doing  strange  tasks.  I  shall  soon  die 
if  I  hear  not  the  voices  of  my  kindred !  —  Oh,  think 
how  hard  it  must  be  not  to  hear  the  language  of  your 
own  people !  not  to  sit  to  eat  with  those  of  your  own 
color !  to  live  on  without  a  smile,  and  die  without  one 
to  mourn  you." 

"  Amy !  Amy !"  exclaimed  Mantunno  involuntarily. 

The  exclamation  seemed  to  dry  the  fountain  of 
pity  that  Amy  had  opened  in  the  old  man's  bosom. 
"  Ye  are  the  child  of  my  enemies,"  he  said,  "  and 
like  all  the  pale-faces,  ye  have  misery  and  ruin  in 
your  track — go  to  your  bed,  child — go  to  your  bed." 

Amy  crept  into  her  little  bower,  and  in  the  anguish 
of  her  heart  she  mentally  reproached  her  lover. 
"Ah!"  she  thought,  "had  I  been  Lovell,  and  he 
been  me,  I  would  not  have  rested  till  every  white 
man  in  the  colonies  was  on  foot,  till  every  den  in  the 
forest  was  searched ;  but,  alas !  alas !  men  do  not 
love  as  we  love !"  Far  into  the  night  she  revolved 
these  bitter  thoughts,  but  finally,  true  to  herself  and 
true  to  Lovell,  she  fell  asleep,  alleging  very  good 
reasons  why  Lovell  could  not  have  found  her. 

While  all  around  him  slept,  Annowon  was  awake, 
gloomily  pondering  the  past,  more  gloomily  the 
future.  The  evening  fire  had  gone  out.  The  moon 
looked  down  smilingly,  just  as  she  had  looked  in  his 
happiest  days,  on  the  stern  home  of  the  old  warrior. 
Her  silvery  beams  fell  on  the  branches  as  they  waved 
in  the  light  breeze;  shone  on  the  flowers  that,  project- 
ing from  the  crevices,  hung  over  the  rocks ;  penetrated 

16* 


174  AMY   CRANSTOUN. 

even  to  the  recess  where  Annowon's  trusty  followers 
were  sleeping;  defined  Mantunno's  graceful  figure  as 
he  lay  near  Amy's  bower,  dreaming  of  the  lovely 
form  within  it ;  fell  on  that  form  modestly  wrapped  in 
a  cloak,  and  played  over  her  fair  cheek  and  bright 
hair — the  fairest  and  brightest  that  ever  rested  on  a 
leafy  pillow  in  the  wild  world. 

Annowon  was  suddenly  startled  from  his  abstraction, 
and  looking  up,  he  saw  Telula  creeping  slowly  and 
cautiously  down  the  rocks.  Annowon,  as  soon  as  he 
had  recovered  from  his  first  joyful  sensation  of 
surprise,  perceived  the  shadow  of  some  person  follow- 
ing her  cast  back  upon  the  rock,  and  then  another, 
and  another,  but  these  shadows  were  so  confounded 
with  that  of  a  large  basket  that  Telula  carried,  and 
constantly  shifted  from  arm  to  arm,  that  they  convey- 
ed no  definite  information  to  Annowon ;  and  he,  as 
little  expecting  treachery  from  Telula  as  from  his 
own  soul,  was  not  alarmed,  till  an  Indian,  instantly 
followed  by  others,  grasped  the  branch  of  a  tree, 
swung  down  the  last  descent,  and  round  an  angle 
of  the  rock,  and  darting  into  the  recess  where  Anno- 
won's followers  were  sleeping,  butchered  them.  At 
the  same  moment  the  old  chief  himself  was  seized. 
Telula  rushed  past  him,  rent  open  the  bower  as  if  it 
were  but  a  spider's  web,  drew  a  hatchet  from  beneath 
her  blanket,  and  raised  her  arm  over  Amy ;  Mantun- 
no  sprang  forward  and  interposed  his  person  in  time 
to  save  Amy  — by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  life ! 

As  his  body  fell  at  her  feet,  Telula  recoiled,  then 
again  raising  her  arm  and  flourishing  the  hatchet  in 


AMY    CRAN8TOUN.  17» 

the  air,  she  purposed  surer  aim  at  the  "  Yengee  girl," 
but  Amy  was  already  far  up  the  rock,  in  the  arms  of 
Lovell  Reeve!  Telula  gazed  after  her,  she  felt 
Mantunno's  warm  blood  dripping  from  her  hatchet  on 
her  arm,  and  sunk  senseless  beside  his  body. 

It  had  all  passed  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  that 
uproots  and  tears  asunder  that  which  was  fast  rooted 
and  bound  together.  Annowon  turned  his  eye  from 
the  bloody  tragedy,  and  saw  himself  in  the  hands  of 
Captain  Church,  the  famous  vanquisher  of  King 
Philip.  He  then,  as  history  records,  took  from  his 
bosom  two  most  curious  bits  of  wampum,  and  some 
other  consecrated  trifles,  that  had  been  a  portion  of 
Philip's  royal  insignia,  and  kneeling,  surrendered 
them  to  Church,  with  the  ceremony  and  feeling  with 
which  a  faithful  follower  yields  the  banner  of  his  chief- 
tain. He  then  sunk  down,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  saying,  "  I  have  done —  I  am  the  last  of 
my  people !" 

We  have  not  space  to  relate  Annowon's  fate.  It 
fills  one  of  those  pages  that  we  could  wish  expunged 
from  the  history  of  christians. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  detail  the  particulars  that  led 
to  the  catastrophe  we  have  described.  We  have 
faintly  intimated  them.  The  curious  reader  will  find 
them  at  large  in  the  contemporaneous  histories.  We 
have  added  some  circumstances  not  there  recorded, 
and  we  have  learned  from  that  veracious  source,  "  the 
best  authority,"  that  Telula  was  afterwards  seen  on 
the  shores  of  the  blue  Ontario,  where,  among  the  wild 


176  AMY   CRAN8TOBN. 

people  who  confound  inspiration  with  insanity,  she 
was  reverenced  and  cherished. 

Lovell  Reeve,  with  his  rescued  betrothed,  proceed- 
ed forthwith  to  Governor  Cranstoun's,  and  no  one 
thenceforth  opposing  his  right  to  her,  it  was  soon 
confirmed  hy  the  solemn  ceremonial  of  marriage. 
The  only  exception  to  the  general  kindness  lavished 
on  Amy,  was  a  remark  from  one  of  her  discreet 
cousins, — on  whom  a  wedding  seems  not  to  have  had 
its  usual  benign  influence, — "that  young  ladies  must 
expect  to  pay  dearly  for  evening  assignations  with 
clandestine  lovers." 


A  SEA-PICTURE, 


BY  ORENVILLE  MELLEN. 


COME — sit  with  me,  here  by  these  dark  old  rocks, 
Where,  as  they  heave  in,  you  may  dip  your  feet 
Into  the  gurgling  waters.     This  white  shaft 
'Gainst  which  we  lean — the  beacon  to  these  seas — 
Whose  sleepless  eye  looks  ever  through  the  storm 
And  beauty  of  the  night,  undimmed — the  same — 
I've  seen  lashed,  to  its  lantern,  by  the  surf 
Of  this  mad  ocean,  when  the  winds  were  up 
In  their  loud  revel. 

I  remember  me, 

While  yet  a  boy,  I  gloried  in  the  scenes 
Of  these  sea-tempests — and  I  oft-times  sought 
These  gray  rocks,  to  look  out  upon  the  sky, 
When  the  waves  mounted  to  it,  as  to  meet 
The  stooping  clouds. 

Once,  when  the  year  was  dim, 
And  the  heavens  curtained  with  the  coming  storm, 
So  deep,  and  so  like  night,  that  men  had  pass'd 


178  A  SEA- PICTURE. 

Into  their  homes,  and  barred  their  very  doors, 
As  against  something  fearful — I  had  crept, 
Full  of  that  young  but  terrible  delight 
That  mastered  me  in  those  days,  to  these  cliffs, 
And  in  a  shelter' d  nook,  far  over  us,  sat  down 
To  watch  the  mustering  spirits  of  the  gale. 

Far  out  on  the  horizon  I  beheld 
One  lone  ship — on  its  darkening  arch  relieved, 
As  some  huge  white-winged  bird,  just  quivering 
Its  pinions  o'er  the  billow  it  had  spurned 
In  its  uprising. — As  I  looked,  it  grew 
Upon  my  vision,  till  a  stately  bark, 
With  its  unmastered  canvass,  through  the  foam, 
Right  on  the  stormy  pathway  of  my  eye, 
Came  plunging  on.  —  The  tempest  now  was  loud — 
And  its  far  voice,  from  crest  to  crest  of  waves, 
Was  calling  through  the  deep — in  that  stern  sound, 
The  everlasting  anthem  of  the  sea, 
When  storm  stirs  all  its  music — and  here — here — 
Upon  these  iron  rocks  it  threw  itself, 
Like  leaping  thunder,  till  I  felt  my  seat 
Quake  under  me,  as  though  the  frighted  earth 
Moved  on  its  great  foundations ! 

She  came,  on — 

Helmless  and  masterless — yet  I  could  see 
From  my  far  aerie  there — where  I  was  held, 
As  by  some  wand  that  spelled  me  into  stone, 
Stirless  and  tongueless  'mid  the  wild  uproar — 
The  dim  deck  crowded  — and  could  trace  faint  forms — 


A  SEA-PICTURE.  179 

And  some  in  white  robes,  flashing  through  the  dull 
And  dizzy  air  the  thundering  waves  threw  up, 
Till  the  mist  bathed  my  brow. 

I  heard  no  sound 

From  the  upheaving  vessel — though  I  saw 
Forms  multitudinous,  with  arms  upflung, 
And  faces  lifted  to  the  pouring  sky — 
For  such  was  the  hoarse  bellowing  of  the  tide, 
And  the  commingled  roaring  of  the  wind, 
That  the  scared  sea-bird,  as  his  dripping  wing 
Flapped  in  my  face  upon  his  circling  flight, 
Passed  with  his  shriek  unheard. 

I  saw  her  now, 

Tumbling  beneath  me.     But  no  hope  was  there ! 
Already  half  a  wreck,  the  noble  bark 
Had  struggled  with  the  storm,  through  drifting  cloud 
And  measureless  abyss ;  till,  tired  and  torn, 
She  bent  despairingly,  before  the  gale, 
Seeking  a  quick  destruction.  —  I  could  see — 
Perched  on  that  roaring  pinnacle,  how  blind 
And  aimless  she  swooped  through  the  tossing  foam, 
With  rudder  racked — rent  mast — and  shattered  sail. 
But  one  mast  staggering  stood — and  at  its  peak 
A  black  flag,  through  the  thin  and  hurrying  clouds, 
Stream' d  to  the  troubled  air; — beneath  it  clung 
To  the  mad,  rocking  spire,  with  naked  arm, 
A  lone,  drenched  sea-boy,  with  his  reeking  hair, 
Now  in  the  rain-cloud  dashed,  and  now  in  foam ! 
Oft  on  the  giddy  yard,  where  yet  the  sail 


180  A  SEA-PICTURE. 

Flared  with  its  lashing  remnant  to  the  sky, 

I  saw  the  crouching  sailor 

In  impotent  essay  at  some  wild  grasp, 

His  thought  had  whispered  in  those  intervals 

Of  light,  that  flash  on  life's  extremities — 

For  hope  is  ever  handmaid  to  despair  I 

Yet  nearer ! — and  I  saw  the  straggling  ropes 
Flung  on  the  rattling  gust — and  a  rent  flag 
Was  shivering  from  the  shrouds — but  nothing  there 
To  tell  the  story  of  its  land.     Then  as  she  rose 
Upon  some  mountain  billow,  I  could  see 
A  quick  smoke  darting  through  the  scattering  foam, 
Belched  from  some  signal  gun,  that  a  mad  hand 
Had  touched,  in  desperation — but  no  sound 
Boomed  through  the  waters,  and  the  roaring  wind. 

At  length  she  struck — and  I  could  see  the  crew 
Leap  at  the  quick  revulsion — and  uplifting 
Their  arms,  as  if  in  gladness,  that  an  end 
Had  come  upon  their  agony — as  if 
They  shouted  o'er  the  yawning  sepulchres 
That  they  had  dreamt  of,  with  a  wildering  hope 
Of  some  last  strange  salvation — as  though  now 
They  hailed  their  very  graves,  with  the  quick  eye 
And  babbling  madness  of  despairing  hearts, 
When  the  dark  leap  must  come. 

Upon  the  side 

Of  the  lurched  ship  stood  one,  whose  convulsed  arm 
Strained  to  her  bosom  something,  that  it  held 


A  SEA-PICTURE.  181 

With  an  unearthly  energy — that  grasp 

Which  Nature  owns  its  strongest! — her  lank  hair 

Part  to  the  tempest  streamed,  and  part  her  breast 

Received  to  veil  her  offspring,  and  to  dull 

Its  faint  cries  for  lost  sustenance.     One  glance 

Told  me  the  tale.  —  The  mother  and  the  child 

Passing,  unparted,  to  a  common  grave ! 

I  look'd — and  they  were  gone — and  in  their  place 
Stood  two  —  gazing  the  last  time  into  eyes 
That  were  the  only  language  of  their  hearts, 
In  that  last  hour  of  agony.  —  I  saw 
Them,  hand  in  hand,  approach  the  reeking  side 
Of  the  rent  bark — and  looking  the  last  time 
Into  each  other's  faces,  and  then  down 
Into  the  gulphing  waters,  they  did  leap, 
With  fingers  yet  entangled — to  the  waves! 
And  hearts  unseparate — defying  there, 
In  love's  undying  unison,  the  pall 
That  death  would  cast  round  their  fidelity ! 

Again — upon  the  parting  deck  stood  one — 
An  old  man — with  white  hair — and  terror-struck. 
He  was  a  miser — and  each  palsied  hand 
Clutched  the  just  bursting  bag,  as  though  he  felt 
That  he  might  bribe  death  with  such  glittering  coin, 
To  pass  such  meagre  prey — or,  if  he  died, 
The  pang  would  be  less  bitter  with  his  gold ! 
But  ah !  no  purchase  from  that  sentence  came — 
I  saw  the  sweltering  sea  leap  over  him, 
And  snatch  his  treasures  to  its  sunless  cavea. 

16 


182  A  SEA-PICTURE. 

The  throng  had  passed,  as  it  seem'd,  under  me, 
Into  one  grave.     Some  laid  them  down  and  died, 
In  their  own  fear's  intensity — and  some, 
Folding  rude  cloaks  around  them,  bowed  their  heads, 
And  turned  their  cringing  backs  upon  the  sea, 
That  smote  them  to  their  death — as  though,  thus 

cowled, 
And  bending,  to  escape  the  billow's  wrath. 

And  now  upon  the  desolated  deck 
But  two  remained — one  was  a  dark-brown  man, — 
A  son  of  Solitude,  like  those  that  roamed 
Once  through  these  sounding  woods.    He  stood  alone, 
His  red  arms  folded  on  his  stalwart  breast, 
And  his  bronzed  face  bent  down,  with  moveless  gaze, 
Upon  the  hurrying  waters. — At  his  side, 
Went  to  and  fro  a  madman,  with  his  hands 
Flung  out  in  supplication,  and,  anon, 
Tearing  with  frenzy  at  his  knotted  hair, 
To  give  it  to  the  winds !  — With  leaping  step 
He  traversed  the  last  timbers — and  at  times 
Waved  round  his  head,  exulting,"  the  remains 
Of  the  last  tattered  flag. 

The  Indian's  gaze, 

Unchanging,  as  himself,  upon  the  gulph 
Still  rested — as  of  a  charmed  statue's  eye! 
He  saw  no  terror  in  the  passage.     'Twasto  him 
But  a  wild  journey  to  the  spirit  land, 
Where  he  should  meet  his  fathers. 


A.  SEA. PICTURE. 

But  enough — 

My  vision,  as  enchanted,  still  glared  down 
Upon  these  ringing  and  insatiate  rocks. 
The  storm  still  howled — and  as  the  rattling  rain 
Beat  in  my  face,  my  sight,  yet  more  intense 
Grew  to  the  groaning  ship — till  she  went  down, 
And  the  wide  sea  poured  in,  in  victory, 
Shouting  and  trampling  o'er  her  sepulchre ! 


THE   HARMONY   OF   NATURE, 

AND 

SOVEREIGNTY  OF  MAN. 


THERE  is  joy  among  the  icebergs,  when  ends  the 
polar  night, 

And  their  mighty  crystals  flash  in  the  newly  waken- 
ed light ; 

There  is  joy  in  shouting  Egypt,  when  through  its 
valleys  wide, 

Pours  the  fountain  of  her  harvests  its  renovated  tide ; 

Through  each  zone  that  belts  the  earth,  Nature  sings 
a  gladsome  song, 

In  numbers  sweetly  simple  or  magnificently  strong ; 

By  the  well-spring  in  the  desert,  beneath  the  spread- 
ing palm, 

Her  voice  rings  sweet  and  holy  through  an  atmos- 
phere of  balm ; 

Where  Niagara  the  burthen  of  his  congregated 
springs 

Hurls  down  the  yawning  chasm,  how  gloriously  she 
sings, 


THE   HARMONY    OF  NATURE.  185 

Afar  in   leafy  forests,    where  the    axe  hath  never 

swung, 
Where  the   Indian  roams   sole   monarch,    and  the 

panther  rears  her  young ; 
In  meadows  of  the  wilderness,  where  proudly  in  the 

air, 
The  elk  his  antlers  tosseth,  and  the  bison  makes  his 

lair; 
From  heights,   where  the   strong   eagle   sways  his 

pinions  on  the  cloud, 

And  valleys,  where  the  vine's  bright  leaves  the  blush- 
ing clusters  shroud ; 
From  the  teeming  lap  of  Ocean,  where  rest  the  sunny 

isles, 
And  white  winged  barks  are  laden  with  their  rich 

and  mellow  spoils ; 
With  trumpet-tongued  sublimity,  or  low  and  silver 

voice, 
Nature  swells  the  mighty  anthem,  whose  burthen  is, 

— Rejoice! 
Oh!    life  sustaining  Air,    bounding  Ocean,  verdant 

Earth, 

The  universe  is  ringing  with  the  music  of  your  mirth; 
Yet  wide  as  is  your  empire,  and  vast  as  is  your  plan, 
Ye  are  but  vassal  servitors,  that  minister  to  Man ; 
'Tis  true,  in  fierce  rebellion,  there  are  moments  when 

ye  rise, 
And  crush  the  weak   defences  he   hath  labored  to 

devise ; 

Yet,  past  your  burst  of  anger,  again  ye  own  his  sway, 
Ye  come  to  him  with  tribute,  ye  hear  him  and  obey, 


186  THE  HARMONY  OF  NATURE. 

He  heweth  down  and  rendeth  the  patriarchs  of  the 
woods, 

He  fashions  them  to  palaces,  that  bear  him  on  the 
floods ; 

Next  the  boundless  realms  of  air  must  be  subject  to 
his  pride, 

And  lo !  the  startled  eagle  beholds  him  at  his  side. 

On  earth  a  mighty  agent  propels  him  with  a  speed, 

That  mocks  the  fleetest  gallop  of  the  desert-nurtured 
steed; 

Intelligence  his  sceptre,  his  weapon,  and  his  shield, 

Who  shall  limit  the  results,  that  his  enterprise  may 
yield. 

How  glorious  is  his  heritage,  how  loud  should  be  his 
praise, 

When  even  things  inanimate,  a  song  of  gladness  raise  | 

The  bounteous  gifts  of  Providence  for  ever  round 
him  shower, 

For  him  the  wild  birds  carol,  and  for  him  the  burst- 
ing flower, 

From  the  jewelled  arch  of  heaven,  to  the  daisy-check- 
ered sod, 

Is  one  continued  banquet  for  the  master-piece  of  God. 

J.  B. 


THE   BRIDE   OF   LAMMERMOOR. 


HARDLY  had  Miss  Ashton  dropped  the  pen,  when 
the  door  of  the  apartment  flew  open,  and  the  Master 
of  Ravenswood  entered. 

*  *  *  *  * 

He  planted  himself  full  in  the  middle  of  the  apart- 
ment, opposite  to  the  table  at  which  Lucy  was  seated, 
on  whom,  as  if  she  had  been  alone  in  the  cham- 
ber, he  bent  his  eyes  with  a  mingled  expression 
of  deep  grief  and  indignation.  His  dark-colored 
riding  cloak,  displaced  from  one  shoulder,  hung 
around  one  side  of  his  person  in  the  ample  folds  of 
the  Spanish  mantle.  The  rest  of  his  rich  dress  was 
travel-soiled  and  deranged  by  hard  riding.  He  had 
a  sword  by  his  side  and  pistols  in  his  belt. 

•  »  *  *  • 

The  matted  and  dishevelled  locks  of  hair,  which 
escaped  from  under  his  hat,  together  with  his  fixed 
and  unmoved  posture,  made  his  head  more  resemble 
a  marble  bust  than  that  of  a  living  man.  He  said  not 
a  single  word,  and  there  was  a  deep  silence  in  the 
company  for  more  than  two  minutes. 

It  was  broken  by  Lady  Ashton,  who  in  that  space 
partly  recovered  her  natural  audacity.  She  demand- 
ed to  know  the  cause  of  this  unauthorized  intrusion. 
Sir  Walter  Scott.— Bride  of  Lammermooi ,  ch.  xxiii. 


DICK    MOON,    THE    PEDLAR; 

OB, 

THE  YANKEE   TRICK. 

BY  WILLIAM  L.  STONE. 


He  hath  ribands  of  all  colors  i"  the  rainbow;  points,  more  than  all  tha 
lawyers  in  Bohemia  can  learnedly  handle  ;  though  they  came  to  him  by 
the  gross ;  inkles,  caddices,  cambrics,  lawns  :  Why,  he  sings  them  over, 
as  they  were  gods  and  goddesses ;  he  so  chants  to  the  sleeve-band,  and 
the  work  about  the  square  on't  Sftakspeare. 

Well;  if  I  be  served  another  such  trick,  I'll  have  my  brains  ta'en  and 
buttered,  and  given  to  a  dog  for  a  new-year's  gift.  Idem. 


"  SOME  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and 
some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them,"  is  a  proposi- 
tion of  Master  Shakspeare's,  which  may  or  not  be 
illustrated  in  the  course  of  the  present  narrative. 
Richard  Moon — or  rather  Dick  Moon — for  he  was 
always  called  Dick  in  Connecticut — was  the  fourth 
of  the  seven  sons  of  Ezra  Moon,  Esq.,  of  Pettypaug, 
a  parish  in  the  town  of  Saybrook,  memorable  for  the 
gallant  defence  made  by  its  inhabitants  against  the 


DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  189 

British  forces,  during  the  late  war.  I  am  thus  parti- 
cular in  the  outset,  and  have  introduced  my  hero  to 
the  reader  thus  early,  in  compliance  with  the  recom- 
mendation of  Doctor  Watts,  that  in  writing  biography, 
every  thing  should  be  placed  in  the  precise  order  in 
which  it  occurred.  Dick  Moon,  then,  as  it  has  just 
been  remarked,  was  the  son  of  Ezra  Moon,  a  very 
worthy  and  estimable  man,  a  stanch  supporter  of 
Jefferson,  and  of  course  a  warm  and  efficient  friend  of 
General  Hart,  of  Saybrook,  for  whom  he  annually 
voted  for  governor,  until  the  decease  of  that  faithful, 
but  always  unsuccessful,  candidate  for  the  executive 
honors  of  Connecticut.  Too  wise,  however,  to  meddle 
with  politics  to  the  detriment  of  his  fortune,  'Squire 
Moon  so  well  managed  his  temporal  affairs,  as  not 
only  to  provide  comfortably  for  his  large  family,  but 
to  add  somewhat  every  year  to  the  small  patrimony 
inherited  from  his  father.  His  sons,  moreover,  gave 
early  evidence  of  activity,  industry,  and  intelligence. 
But  of  all  the  number,  Dick  was  the  shrewdest  in 
getting  money,  the  most  successful  in  its  keeping,  and 
the  most  fortunate  in  providing  for  its  steady  accu- 
mulation. 

The  craniological  theories  of  Gall  and  Spurzheim 
had  only  been  heard  of  from  afar,  when  Dick  Moon 
was  in  his  childhood,  and  the  bumps  upon  the  heads 
of  young  and  old,  were  in  those  days  left  unexamined, 
save  when  arising  from  an  accident,  or  a  quarrel  j 
but  had  the  Avorld  then  been  blessed  with  those 
scientific  itinerants,  who  read  character  in  the  os  fron- 
tis  or  the  occiput,  instead  of  the  eyes,  and  judge  of 


190  DICK  MOON,   THE   PEDLAR. 

propensities  by  feeling  the  head,  instead  of  studying 
the  heart,  our  hero's  organ  of  acquisitiveness  would 
doubtless  have  been  declared  very  strongly  developed. 
The  acquisition  of  money  was  indeed  a  passion  with 
him,  and  from  the  moment  he  began  to  understand  its 
value,  his  principal  study  was  how  to  obtain  it — at 
first  by  solicitation,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  been  induct- 
ed into  the  mysteries  of  exchange,  by  traffic  and 
barter.  Indeed,  had  Richard  Moon  grown  up  with 
as  little  principle  as  Hugh  Audley,  so  well  did  he 
understand  the  art  of  making  money  multiply  itself, 
that  he  might  have  equalled  that  great  Shylock  of 
England,  who  flourished  through  the  reigns  of  the 
first  two  of  the  Stuarts. 

An  anecdote  will  here  at  once  illustrate  his  pen- 
chant for  money  even  in  his  childhood,  and  his 
ingenuity  in  the  pursuit  of  his  object.  At  a  very 
early  age  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  asking  every 
visiter  at  his  father's  house  to  give  him  a  cent.  The 
request  being  so  moderate,  was  of  course  never 
denied  when  copper  change  was  at  hand,  and  Dick 
was  careful  to  stow  away  every  penny.^  His  parents, 
being,  as  we  have  already  seen,  thrifty  farmers,  and 
"  well  to  do  in  the  world,"  as  the  practice  continued, 
began  to  feel  no  small  degree  of  mortification  upon 
the  subject — often  remonstrating  with  their  little  son 
against  his  conduct,  but  to  no  purpose.  Although  he 
might  promise  reformation,  yet  on  the  appearance  of 
the  next  visiter,  he  would  be  sure  to  watch  for  an 
opportunity  to  ask  for  another  cent.  His  parents  at 
length  determined  upon  a  decisive  course  of  conduct 


DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  191 

in  the  premises,  and  Dick  was  solemnly  admonished, 
and  threatened  with  positive  and  severe  chastisement 
in  the  event  of  his  repeating  the  offence.  The 
appearance  of  the  next  visiter  was  a  severe  trial  to  the 
urchin.  He  was  observed  to  be  unusually  exercised 
in  his  mind,  and  fidgetted  about  with  great  uneasiness. 
Once  or  twice  he  seemed  almost  upon  the  point  of 
speaking  out  his  accustomed  request,  when  a  stern 
glance  from  his  father  checked  the  words  ere  they 
had  quite  dropped  from  his  tongue.  But  Yankee 
ingenuity  is  often  an  overmatch  for  any  thing,  and 
Dick  at  length  triumphed.  Edging  up  towards  the 
stranger,  cunningly  attracting  his  attention  by  a 
significant  leer,  and  at  the  same  time  casting  a  min- 
gled look  of  archness  and  terror  upon  his  father,  in 
the  legitimate  dialect  of  "  down  east,"  he  said,  "  1 
guess  you  don't  know  nobody  who  would  be  willing 
to  lend  me  a  cent,  do  you !"  His  victory  was  com- 
plete, for  instead  of  a  rebuke,  a  burst  of  laughter 
followed  alike  from  the  'Squire,  and  those  who  had 
observed  the  workings  of  the  mind  of  little  Dick,  and 
his  evasion  of  the  letter  of  the  command. 

Still,  although  so  thoroughly  intent  upon  money- 
gathering,  it  must  be  observed  in  justice  to  Dick, 
that  he  was  not  prompted  thereunto  by  avarice,  for 
there  was  nothing  of  meanness  in  his  composition. 
It  was  never  known,  either  in  the  days  of  his  juve- 
nility, or  of  his  manhood,  that  he  resorted  to  unfair 
or  dishonorable  means  to  gratify  his  favorite  passion 
of  "  putting  money  in  his  purse ;"  but  in  the  way  of 
trade  and  barter,  where  both  parties  were  supposed  to 


192  DICK  MOON,  THE    PEDLAR. 

have   their   eyes  open,  he  thought  it  not  wrong  to 
practice  upon  the  maxim,  that 


•  A  thing 


Is  worth  as  much  as  it  will  bring : 

And  never  was  son  of  Adam,  young  or  old,  more 
prolific  in  expedients  to  turn  a  penny  with  success. 
He  was  full  of  good  humor,  adroit  in  his  little 
schemes  of  traffic  and  gain,  and  persuasive  with  his 
tongue — and  hence  a  general  favorite,  not  only 
among  his  own  brothers  and  sisters,  but  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  among  his  school-fellows, — for  'Squire 
Moon  was  careful  to  give  his  family  the  advantage  of 
the  best  schools  in  Pettypaug.  These  characteristics, 
it  may  be  thought,  were  not  altogether  in  keeping 
with  Dick's  ardent  pursuit  of  the  root  of  evil ;  but  it 
must  be  remarked,  that  at  no  period  of  his  life  did  he 
ever  exhibit  a  solitary  token  of  the  miser's  disposition. 
On  the  contrary,  he  displayed  a  thousand  generous 
traits  and  amiable  qualities.  Possessing  always  a 
fine  flow  of  spirits,  ready  in  repartee,  and  quick  in 
his  perceptions  of  the  ludicrous — abounding  in 
humorous  anecdote,  as  he  approached  the  age  of 
manhood,  he  was  always,  boy  and  man,  the  life  of 
the  circle  in  which  he  chanced  to  mingle.  But  in  all 
matters  of  trade,  he  was  wide  awake — keen  as  a 
briar.  No  sooner  did  he  find  that  one  of  his  brothers, 
or  other  comrades,  had  become  possessed  of  a  "  nine- 
pence  lawful,"  or,  perchance,  a  pistareen,  but  he  set 
his  wits  at  work  to  gain  it;  and  he  generally 
succeeded  by  offering  some  tempting  article  in  barter, 


DICK  MOON,  THE   PEDLAR.  193 

and  persuading  them  of  the  advantages  they  would 
derive  from  the  purchase.  The  consequence  was, 
that  on  the  semi-annual  returns  of  election  holy-days, 
a  "  general  training,"  and  thanksgiving,  when  money 
was  wanted  by  his  brothers  and  others  for  the  pur- 
chase of  election-cake  or  ginger-bread,  and  to  defray 
the  expense  of  turkey-shootings,  Dick,  who  was  sure 
to  hold  "  the  deposites,"  was  called  upon  to  furnish 
the  loans  necessary  for  each  occasion.  This  he  was 
ever  ready  and  prompt  to  do,  but  always  exacting 
some  sufficient  pledge  for  security,  and  never  failing 
to  regain  his  own  "  with  usury."  Foremost  in  the 
amusements  and  jollifications  incident  to  those  festive 
days,  moreover,  it  was  nevertheless  rare  indeed 
that  they  were  indulged  at  the  expense  of  his  own 
cash.  Not  that  he  escaped  his  share  of  the  reckoning 
by  stinginess — not  he;  but  he  had  great  readiness  in 
devising  tricks  of  legerdemain,  and  in  acquiring 
hints  for  the  performance  of  the  simpler  experiments 
of  strolling  jugglers.  Trifling  wagers  upon  his 
successful  feats  of  dexterity,  therefore,  were  always 
sufficient  to  pay  his  proportion;  his  associates  were 
more  than  compensated  by  the  exhibition  of  his 
powers,  while  the  elderly  buxom  lasses  were  delighted 
with  his  skill,  and  the  matrons  of  the  parish  pro- 
nounced him  "  eena-most  a  witch." 

It  would  be  useless  to  recount  the  almost  countless 
devices  to  which  Dick  resorted  for  driving  a  profitable 
internal  commerce  among  his  playmates  during  his 
boyhood.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  he  was  always  ready 
for  a  trade — even  to  the  swopping  of  his  hat,  or 

17 


194  DICK   MOON,   THE  PEDLAR. 

exchanging  pocket  knives  "  unsight  unseen,"  which 
was  formerly  a  frequent  mode  of  "  dickering"  among 
the  lads  at  the  country  schools  of  Connecticut. 
Lucky  dog  that  he  was,  he  was  ever  sure  to  have  the 
best  of  the  bargain. 

The  invasion  of  Pettypaug  by  the  British  forces 
landed  from  the  ships  of  Commodore  Hardy,  then 
lying  off  the  estuary  of  the  Connecticut  river,  during 
the  last  war,  has  been  adverted  to  in  rather  a  back- 
handed way  in  the  opening  of  our  story.  It  is 
needless  to  recapitulate  the  history  of  that  memorable 
exploit.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  people  of  that  rather 
sequestered  parish  could  hardly  have  anticipated  a 
visit  from  the  enemy,  at  least  not  until  after  the  more 
attractive  parish  of  Saybrook  should  have  received 
the  honor.  But  it  so  fell  out  that  the  rich  booty  of 
General  Hart's  large  mercantile  establishment  was 
passed  by  unheeded ;  and  early  one  morning,  as  the 
good  people  of  Pettypaug  were  brushing  the  poppies 
from  their  eyes,  and  ere  the  sun-beams  had  chased 
away  the  saffron  hues  of  Aurora,  to  their  infinite 
surprise  they  discovered  that  a  column  of  red-coats 
were  enjoying  their  morning  parade  in  the  midst  of 
their  principal  street !  Of  course  the  old  ladies,  with 
and  without  petticoats,  Avere  suitably  frightened, 
while  those  who  would  willingly  have  made  fight  if 
they  could,  were  precluded  therefrom  by  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  the  case,  having  been  taken  com- 
pletely unawares,  alike  unarmed  and  undressed ! 
For  Dick  Moon,  however,  ready  and  quickwitted 
in  any  emergency,  it  was  a  golden  morning.  As 


DICK  MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  196 

if  by  instinct,  and  before  the  other  villagers  had 
recovered  from  their  surprise,  he  struck  up  a  trade 
with  the  strangers,  and  by  exchanging  whatever  of 
butter  and  eggs,  vegetables  and  poultry,  he  could  lay 
his  hands  upon,  for  the  king's  money — for  so  that  the 
metal  was  good,  he  cared  not  for  the  stamp — Dick 
amassed  enough  to  supply  a  snug  little  exchequer. 
It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good ;  and  while 
the  fleet  of  merchantmen  which  had  been  moored 
thus  far  up  the  river  for  safety,  were  blazing  away  as 
though  Copenhagen  Jackson  were  there  himself, 
Dick  Moon  was  laying  the  foundation  of  his  future 
fortunes. 

Money  grew  every  day  scarcer  during  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  war,  and  Dick  was  consequently 
enabled  to  make  his  own  terms  in  occasional  and  not 
unfrequent  loans  of  small  sums  to  those  in  want — 
always  receiving  a  pledge  of  more  than  ample  value, 
as  security  for  the  repayment  on  a  certain  day.  Most 
commonly  the  pledge  was  a  watch,  as  being  at  once 
the  most  convenient,  and  the  most  readily  converted 
into  cash.  It  was  amusing  at  times  to  see  the  number 
of  silver  chronometers  hanging  in  his  bedroom ;  and 
with  him  there  was  no  "  three  days'  grace."  If  the 
money  did  not  come  at  the  time  stipulated,  a  rigid  for- 
feiture of  the  pledge  was  exacted.  But  as  he  dealt  ex- 
plicitly and  honorably  with  every  one,  and  was  withal 
remarkable  for  his  conciliating  manner,  notwithstand- 
ing his  exactness  in  claiming  and  receiving  his  own, 
he  made  no  enemies  by  his  scrupulous  adherence  to 
the  exact  rules  of  his  bank ;  and  having  taken  tho 


196  DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR. 

tide  of  fortune  at  its  flood,  he  was  drifted  successfully 
onward. 

The  consequence  was,  that  the  close  of  the  war 
found  Dick  Moon  just  one-and-twenty,  with  ready 
money  sufficient  wherewith  to  purchase  a  fine  horse, 
and  a  substantial  and  capacious  pedlar's  cart,  with  tin 
ware,  and  other  "  notions,"  enough  to  fill  it.  Thus 
furnished  and  provided,  without  owing  a  cent  in  the 
world,  our  hero  sallied  forth,  as  thousands  of  this 
itinerant  race  of  merchants  had  done  before  him. 
But  it  may  readily  be  supposed,  from  the  character 
we  have  sketched  of  him,  that  he  was  not  of  the 
common  order  of  pedlars.  Although  possessing  a 
full  share  of  the  characteristic  shrewdness  and  humor 
of  the  tribe,  he  was,  nevertheless,  above  practising 
the  tricks  which  have  won  an  unenviable  fame  for 
the  order ;  and  he  dealt  not  in  wooden  clocks  that 
became  tired  of  ticking  before  sundown,  or  in  tortoise 
shell  combs  made  of  glue  and  molasses,  or  in  horn- 
gun-flints  and  artificial  indigo.  Setting  his  face 
toward  the  far  south,  he  traversed  the  "  ancient 
dominion,"  and  the  Carolinas,  year  after  year,  bring- 
ing back  golden  returns,  and  every  where  leaving  a 
good  character.  To  be  sure,  he  sold  at  a  profit,  and 
was  certain  never  to  exchange  commodities  to  a 
disadvantage.  It  was  his  business  to  do  so ;  but  he 
was  guilty  of  none  of  the  peculiar  cunning  and 
trickery  imputed  so  universally  to  those  of  his 
calling ;  and  was  never  afraid  to  traverse  the  same 
route  a  second  time — a  fact  which  could  not  be 
predicated  of  most  pedlars.  Indeed,  wherever  known, 


DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  W7 

the  presence  of  Dick  Moon  was  always  welcome, 
since  he  was  not  only  a  man  of  intelligence,  but  of 
agreeable  address,  and  "most  excellent  fancy" — full 
of  good  humor  and  native  drollery,  without  the  too 
frequent  accompaniments  of  coarseness  and  vulgarity. 
The  hospitality  of  our  southern  fellow-citizens  is 
proverbial.  Good  inns,  in  that  country,  are  few  and 
far  between ;  and  even  indifferent  ones  are  not  very 
numerous.  The  broad  domains  of  the  opulent  plan- 
ters, moreover,  necessarily  throw  their  mansions  a 
goodly  distance  asunder.  Of  society,  beyond  their 
own  immediate  family  circles,  they  see  but  compara- 
tively little,  save  when  they  go  abroad  in  quest  of  it. 
The  consequence  is,  that  they  are  frequently  as  much 
favored  by  the  company  of  an  intelligent  stranger- 
guest,  as  the  latter  is  by  an  unexpected  invitation,  and 
a  cordial  reception.  This  explanation  prepares  the 
way  for  the  relation  of  another  important  incident  in 
the  life  of  our  hero.  It  happened  on  one  occasion, 
that  Dick  found  himself  chaffering  in  the  way  of  trade 
with  the  mistress  of  a  large  but  isolated  mansion,  in  the 
lower  part  of  Virginia,  at  a  rather  late  hour  in  the  even- 
ing. The  lady  disputed  his  prices,  and  examined  so 
many  of  his  wares  and  other  notions,  as  ladies  are  wont 
to  do,  that  the  shades  of  night  were  drawing  on  before 
he  was  r.eady  to  resume  his  journey.  Added  to  which, 
a  massy  pile  of  dark  clouds  in  the  west  threatened  a 
tempest.  Under  these  circumstances,  and  in  consider- 
ation, moreover,  of  the  pedlar's  intelligence  and  agree- 
able address,  he  was  invited  to  remain  for  the  night. 
When  the  lord  of  the  mansion  came  in,  on  being 
.  17- 


198  DICK   MOON,    THE   PEDLAR. 

made  acquainted  with  the  circumstance,  he  was 
evidently  not  altogether  pleased  with  the  arrangement 
He  was  a  republican  who  at  the  hustings  could  talk 
eloquently  of  liberty  and  equality,  while  at  home 
more  than  a  hundred  slaves  trembled  at  his  presence. 
He  was  proud  of  his  caste,  and  thought  that  nothing 
was  equal  to  old  Virginia,  because,  at  that  time,  he 
had  never  travelled  beyond  it.  The  Yankees,  of  all 
men,  he  had  been  taught  to  despise  as  a  miserly  race, 
who  never  wept  but  when  weeding  their  onions,  nor 
blushed,  but  when  plating  their  tin — and  the  Yankee 
pedlars  were  the  objects  of  his  particular  abhorrence. 
And  yet  there  were  many  excellent  points  in  the 
character  of  Major  Dinwiddie.  Among  his  equals 
there  were  few  possessing  greater  intelligence,  or 
more  amiable  and  generous  qualities  than  he,  unless  his 
judgment  had  been  warped,  or  his  feelings  wrought 
upon  by  prejudice.  But,  on  the  whole,  it  needed 
not  half  the  penetration  possessed  by  the  pedlar,  to 
discern  that  he  was  not  altogether  as  welcome  a  guest 
as  probably  would  have  been  one  of  the  Gholsons  or 
the  Randolphs.  Not  many  words  had  been  inter- 
changed, before  the  planter  indicated  still  more 
intelligibly  his  half-dissatisfied  humor,  by  asking 
abruptly — 

"  Well,  brother  Jonathan,  I  reckon  you've  brought 
along  a  power  of  notions  to  please  the  Virginians, 
eh!  What  have  you?" 

"  Pretty  much  every  thing,  I  guess ;  tin-ware,  pins  and 
pepper,  drums,  needles  and  shuttle-cocks,  fiddles,  dolls, 
warming-pans,  mouse-traps,  and  other  sweet-meats — " 


DICK  MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  189 

"  Together  with  a  heap  of  wooden  nutmegs, 

I  reckon — how  do  they  sell?" 

"  Why,  sax-a-fax*  sell  pretty  lively  yet,  but  white 
oak  don't  go  very  well  of  late." 

The  planter  was  by  no  means  insensible  to  the 
ludicrous ;  and  the  promptness  of  the  pedlar's  replies, 
the  peculiar  cast  of  gravity  with  which  they  were 
uttered,  and  their  oddity  withal,  soon  dissipated  the 
prejudice  which  had  chilled  his  welcome,  and  placed 
Dick  Moon  at  once  upon  a  different  footing  for  the 
evening.  Major  Dinwiddie  discovered  that  he  was 
entertaining  a  very  clever  fellow,  albeit  a  pedlar; 
and  after  sipping  a  cheerful  julep  together,  the 
Virginian  sunk  the  aristocrat,  and  conversed  as  freely 
of  his  tobacco  crop,  his  negroes,  his  horses,  and  his 
hounds,  as  though  talking  with  one  of  the  Drom- 
gooles  or  Merriwethers  of  his  own  county.  He  made 
many  inquiries  of  the  pedlar  respecting  matters  and 
things  in  Yankee  land,  and  in  the  course  of  the 
evening  was  very  inquisitive  on  the  subject  of  the 
"  Yankee  tricks,"  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much. 
The  pedlar,  on  his  part,  sustained  the  conversation  very 
creditably,  for  himself,  his  country,  and  his  calling. 

In  regard  to  the  peculiar  "tricks,"  for  the  practice 
of  which  his  countrymen  were  enjoying  such  unenvia- 
ble notoriety  at  the  South,  he  disclaimed,  and  truly,  any 
practical  knowledge  of  them  himself,  while  engaged 
in  his  itinerating  commercial  intercourse  with  the 
plantation  states,  nor  did  he  acknowledge  them  to  be 
exclusively  characteristic  of  the  Yankees.  There 
*  The  provincial  pronunc.ation  of  Sassafras. 


200  DICK   MOON,   THE  PEDLAR. 

were  tricks  in  all  trades  and  occupations,  and  tricky 
men  in  all  countries.  The  adroitness  with  which 
they  were  practised,  would  of  course  depend  upon  the 
shrewdness  of  the  artist — not  upon  his  parentage,  or 
the  place  of  his  birth ;  and  he  was  greatly  mistaken 
if  Virginia  horse  jockeys  could  not  be  found  equalling 
any  wooden  clock  vender  that  ever  came  from 
Connecticut.  But  the  planter  was  incredulous.  He 
had  heard  so  much  of  the  tricks  of  the  Yankee 
pedlars,  that  he  could  not  divest  himself  of  the  idea 
that  the  study  of  the  art  was  a  part  of  their  profession. 
Hence  he  supposed  them  to  be  a  sort  of  roving 
brotherhood — bound  by  a  mystic  tie  like  the  freema- 
sons— with  the  art  of  working  tricks  by  a  process 
known  only  to  their  own  hopeful  fraternity, — and 
so  curious  was  he  to  behold  a  legitimate  Yankee 
trick,  that  he  begged  of  his  guest  to  work  one  for  his 
own  special  gratification.  Our  hero  had  no  desire  to 
gain  notoriety  in  that  way,  and  he  repeatedly  begged 
to  be  excused,  modestly  alleging  his  inability  to 
perform  any  such  exploit,  either  of  dexterity,  or  of 
wit.  Importunity,  however,  at  length  prevailed  over 
resolution ;  and  as  the  family  separated  for  the  night, 
Dick  promised  to  show  the  Major  a  trick  before  he 
took  his  departure  in  the  morning. 

An  ebony  damsel,  lustrous  from  very  blackness, 
lighted  Dick  to  his  chamber,  and  pointed  him  to  a 
high  bed,  into  which,  when  he  threw  himself,  he  sunk 
as  into  a  sea  of  down,  so  light  and  lively  were  the 
feathers.  The  sheets  were  sweet  and  clean,  and  over 
all  was  spread  a  superb  Marseilles  counterpane, 


DICK  MOON,   THE  PEDLAR.  201 

beautifully  wrought  in  delicate  figures,  as  if  the 
needle-work  of  some  fairy  fingers,  and  rivalling  the 
driven  snow  in  whiteness. 

The  pedlar  awoke  with  the  lark  from  a  glorious 
slumber,  and  was  dressed  before  a  single  inmate  of 
the  mansion  was  on  the  move.  Having  completed  his 
toilet,  in  regard  to  which  he  was  always  somewhat 
more  attentive  than  is  usual  with  his  profession,  he  took 
the  counterpane  from  the  bed,  folded  it  carefully  as 
though  just  taken  from  a  bale  of  merchandise,  attach- 
ed a  commercial  mark  to  the  fringe,  and  carried  it 
out  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  before  any  of  the 
family  had  risen,  and  placed  it  in  his  cart.  The 
wants  of  his  faithful  horse  were  next  consulted,  and 
after  measuring  to  him  an  ample  supply  of  provender, 
he  regained  his  apartment,  yet  unperceived,  and  in 
due  season  presented  himself  below  with  the  family, 

In  the  country,  where  time  is  employed  according 
to  the  design  of  the  Creator — where  the  night  is  taken 
for  repose,  as  the  day  was  ordained  for  labor — and 
where  it  is  thought  no  mark  of  disrespect  to  rise  before 
the  sun, — breakfast  is  truly  a  morning  meal.  Accord- 
ingly, it  was  found  smoking  upon  the  table,  as  the 
pedlar  descended  into  the  parlor,  where,  in  a  moment 
afterward,  he  was  joined  by  the  hospitable  major  and 
his  lady.  Of  course  the  morning  repast,  inviting  and 
bountiful  to  an  excess,  according  to  southern  cus- 
tom, was  not  to  be  declined,  and  Dick  gave  practical 
testimony  that  he  was  not  afflicted  by  the  dyspepsia. 

In  due  season,  and  without  unnecessary  delay,  the 
pedlar's  horse  was  in  harness,  and  he  was  just 


208  DICK  MOON,  THE  PEDLAR. 

preparing  to  ascend  his  box  to  depart,  when,  as  though 
suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he  called  to  the  lady, 
and  informed  her  that  he  had  in  his  box  one  article, 
and  only  one,  which  he  was  exceedingly  desirous 
she  should  possess.  It  was  a  splendid  Marseilles 
counterpane,  Avrought  exactly  after  a  pattern  which 
had  been  drawn  for  the  Duchess  of  Berri,  and  in 
consideration  of  the  kindness  with  which  he  had  been 
entertained,  she  must  have  it.  He  thereupon  brought  it 
forth  from  his  cart,  and  opened  it  to  the  admiration  of 
the  whole  family.  It  was  so  fine,  so  beautiful,  so 
much  handsomer  than  any  thing  of  the  kind  they  had 
ever  seen,  that  the  vote  was  unanimous  that  it  must  be 
purchased.  And  then,  it  was  so  cheap — only  forty 
dollars !  "  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dinwiddie  to  the 
Major — "How  lucky!  It  is  just  the  thing  that  I  was 
wanting  for  the  blue  chamber,  against  Mr.  Calhoun 
comes  along  on  his  way  to  congress !"  And  so  the 
counterpane  was  purchased.  The  pedlar  pocketted 
the  money,  bade  them  good  morning,  and  mounted 
his  cart. 

"  But  stay  a  moment,  Mr.  Moon,"  called  the  Major, 
as  the  pedlar  began  to  raise  his  whip  for  a  flourish : 
"  Where  is  the  Yankee  trick  you  promised  to  show 
me  before  your  departure?" 

"  Never  mind,"  replied  Dick,  "you  will  find  it  out 
soon  enough!"  and  with  a  crack  of  his  whip,  he 
drove  off  at  a  rapid  gait — more  after  the  pattern  of 
Jehu,  than  he  had  ever  driven  before. 

The  denouement  followed  in  due  season,  as  a  matter 
of  course ;  but  the  pedlar  was  far  away,  and  there 


DICK  MOON,  THE  PEDLAR.  903 

was  no  remedy.  And  besides,  to  a  man  of  Major 
Dinwiddie's  pretensions  and  pride,  having  been 
caught  in  a  trap  of  his  own  setting,  the  less  said  about 
it  in  public  the  better.  The  story  was  too  good, 
however,  long  to  be  kept ;  and  it  may  well  be  suppos- 
ed that  the  merriment  created  at  his  expense,  was  not 
calculated  to  increase  his  affection  for  the  venders  of 
tin- ware  from  Connecticut. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  the  wheels  of  Dick  Moon's 
cart  meantime  rolled  over  almost  every  state  in  the 
Union  —  each  revolution  adding  to  his  temporal 
stores,  and  of  course  increasing  his  investments ;  for 
our  hero  was  not  the  man  to  leave  either,  at  loose 
ends,  or  idle.  And  here,  though  not  without  great 
reluctance,  his  biographer  must  take  leave  of  him  for 
the  present. 


It  was  just  at  night-fall,  one  day,  in  the  autumn  of 
1832 — the  fatal  year  in  which  the  scourge  of  India, 
the  cholera,  made  its  appearance,  and  swept  with 
fearful  mortality  through  the  land,  from  the  Gulf  of 
the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Delta  of  the  Mississippi — 
that  a  well  mounted  gentleman,  somewhat  fatigued, 
however,  and  having  the  appearance  of  one  upon 
a  long  journey,  rode  up  to  an  indifferent  looking  inn, 
about  midway  between  the  parishes  of  East  and  West 
Feliciana,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Baton  Rouge,  on 
the  Mississippi.  This  is  by  far  the  pleasantest  district 
of  Louisiana.  Having  traversed  alone,  and  on  horse- 
back, from  New-Orleans,  a  distance  of  nearly  two 


2M  DICK  MOON,   THE  PEDLAR. 

hundred  miles,  over  a  dead  level,  diversified  only 
between  the  plantations  by  pine  woods  and  swamps, 
alluvions  and  quaking  prairies,  it  was  an  agreeable 
change  for  the  traveller,  to  find  himself  in  a  country 
breaking  into  hills  and  valleys,  the  former  covered 
with  laurel,  and  the  latter  with  rich  plantations.  The 
foliage  of  the  trees  was  assuming  those  rich  and  varied 
hues,  which  impart  so  much  beauty  to  the  autumnal 
drapery  of  the  American  forests,  and  the  stranger  had 
moreover  refreshed  himself  repeatedly  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  by  plucking  and  eating  of  the  rich 
fox  and  muscadine  grapes,  that  hung  in  ripe  and 
luscious  clusters,  descending,  at  times,  almost  over 
his  head — and  too  inviting  in  appearance  and  taste  to 
be  resisted. 

The  landlord,  with  rubicund  visage,  more  strongly 
illuminated,  probably,  by  the  beams  now  glancing 
horizontally  upon  his  shining  nose  from  the  setting 
sun,  stood  in  the  portal  of  his  somewhat  dilapidated 
tenement — a  chateau,  as  it  had  been  called  in  its 
better  days,  when  owned  and  occupied  by  a  relation 
of  the  Marquis  Maison  Rouge. 

"  Stranrger"  said  the  traveller  to  the  publican, 
"  can  I  get  to  stay  with  you  to-night  ?" 

"  Well,  I  reckon,"  was  the  affirmative  reply,  in  the 
Red  River  dialect.  Whereupon  the  horseman  dis- 
mounted, and  the  proper  directions  were  given  to  the 
sable  ostler. 

"  Caesar,  hang  the  Stran-ger's  horse  finent  the 
spring,  and  when  he  gets  cool,  wash  him  and  rub 
him  down,  and  give  him  a  smart  chance  of  roughness. 


DICK  MOON,  THE  PEDLAR.  205 

Hack,  now,  and  draw  a  bee-line  quick :  and,  here,  Jube, 
tote  in  the  sircm-gei's  plunder :  —  Come,  patter  along." 

While  these  arrangements  were  making,  some  little 
conversation  ensued  between  the  publican  and  guest. 

"From  the  up-country,  I  reckon?"  inquired  the 
former. 

"  From  Old  Virginia."    ' 

"  Smart  sprinkle  of  niggers  there  yet  ?  though  a 
power  of  them  has  been  brought  to  Orleans,  and  up 
to  Bayou-Sarah,  within  a  few  years  past.  This  sugar- 
making  does  the  business  for  a  heap  of  'em  every 
year.  The  cholera  cuts  'em  off  this  fall  most  ban- 
daciously.  Mr.  L'Amoreaux,  at  the  last  plantation 
back,  which  you  passed,  has  had  a  touch,  and  is 
powerful  weak  yet." 

The  traveller,  who  was  rather  less  sociable  than 
the  publican,  and  who  was,  in  fact,  making  an  over- 
land journey  homeward  from  New-Orleans,  whither 
he  had  been  to  dispose  of  forty  or  fifty  of  his  slaves, 
uttered  some  indifferent  reply,  and  was  turning  to 
enter  the  house,  when  he  discovered  the  cart  of  a 
New  England  pedlar,  standing  under  a  shed  a  short 
distance  from  the  door. 

"  This  universal  Yankee  nation !"  he  exclaimed, 
"  you  find  them  every  where.  I  reckon  they  would  go 
to  Tophet  to  sell  a  pistareen's  worth  of  mammoth 
pumpkin  seeds,  if  they  could  clear  four-pence  by  it. 
I  say,  landlord,  I  think  you  should  keep  a  quick  eye 
upon  the  sharpers  who  ride  upon  carts  like  that.  No 
honest  man  is  safe  against  their  tricks,  and  for  a  keen 
shave  I  reckon  old  Brimstone  himself  could'nt  beat 


206  DICK  MOON,  THE  PEDLAR. 

them.  Indeed,  I  believe  he's  in  partnership  with 
most  of  'em." 

"  Never  mind  me  for  that,"  replied  the  landlord. 
"  I  never  seed  a  Yankee  yet,  from  Mike  Fink,  the 
boatman — and  he  was  a  rip-roarer,  you  know, — 
down  to  the  slickest  pedlar  that  ever  found  his  way 
to  Baton  Rouge,  who  was  up  to  Bill  Mackintosh  — 
and  that's  my  name,  Stran-ger,  to  your  sarvice." 

"  So  I  should  think :  But  what  sort  of  a  man  has 
carted  himself  hither  upon  that  box?" 

"  I  don't  mind  that  I  ever  seed  him  afore ;  but  he 
is  a  likely  looking  chap,  and  his  horse  swings  a  fine 
tail.  He's  gone  over  the  hill  to  find  an  old  neighbor 
of  his,  by  the  name  of  Dudley,  .who  toted  himself  into 
these  parts  about  fifteen  years  ago,  and  has  made 
himself  richer  without  any  niggers,  than  any  of  the 
rest  of  us  who  have  fifty  on  'em.  I  don't  reckon  that 
Dudley  will  now  let  on  that  he  ever  know'd  the 
pedlar." 

"  Well,  I  advise  you  to  keep  a  look  out  for  him, 
that's  all.  These  Yankee  tricks — " 

"  Oh,  never  fear :  Should  he  play  any  of  his  tricks 
upon  Bill  Mackintosh — you  see  that  are  rifle?  — he'd 
soon  find  himself  obsquattulated,  and  a  streak  of  day- 
light shining  through  him." 

The  stranger  had  entered  the  house  before  the  last 
words  were  spoken,  and  Boniface  turned  to  swear  at 
his  negroes  for  not  stirring  more  briskly  in  closing  up 
their  chores. 

In  the  course  of  the  night,  the  proprietor  of  the 
New  England  vehicle  which  had  occasioned  a  portion 


DICK  MOON,  THE   PEDLAR.  207 

of  the  preceding  colloquy,  was  aroused  from  his  bed 
by  a  terrible  commotion  in  the  chateau.  The  land- 
lord was  swearing  at  the  poor  servants,  whose  negro 
gibberish  fell  upon  the  pedlar's  ear,  mingled  with 
groans,  as  of  a  person  in  a  situation  of  severe  suffer- 
ing. 

"Out,  out  with  him!"  gruffly  exclaimed  the  land- 
lord. "  I  keep  a  tavern,  and  not  a  cholera  hospital."  !» 

"  But  oh,  Massa,  de  gemman  so  sick !  He  can't 
move  'um — he  die  for  sartin !  Me  nebber  see  white 
man  look  so  brack  and  brue." 

"  Take  him  out  to  the  shed,  you  cantankerous  black 
rascals !"  roared  Boniface. 

"I  wish-ee  Massa  den  be  sick  heself — turn  out 
poor  ting  in  sich-ee  debble  of  a  passhun.  Poor 
nigger  more  compasshuns  den  dat,"  soliloquized  the 
humane  African,  in  an  under  tone; — whereupon  the 
trembling  bevy  of  slaves  sat  about  executing  the 
brutal  order. 

The  pedlar  had  been  an  auditor,  though  not  a 
spectator,  of  the  scene,  and  being  a  humane  man,  he 
threw  on  his  clothes  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
hastened  to  the  relief  of  the  sick  gentleman,  whose 
case,  from  the  language  he  had  heard,  and  the  circum- 
stance that  the  cholera  was  at  that  time  raging  in  the 
Valley  of  the  Mississippi,  he  already  understood.  To 
see  a  fellow  being  thus  inhumanly  cast  out  of  the 
house,  a  stranger,  perhaps,  far  from  home  and 
kindred,  to  die  with  the  brutes,  was  shocking  to  his 
feelings,  and  it  was  his  purpose,  at  all  hazards,  to 
prevent  the  execution  of  the  savage  mandate  he  had 


208  DICK  MOON,  THE   PEDLAR. 

heard.  But  ere  he  was  able  to  join  the  sable  group 
who  had  the  sick  man  in  charge,  they  had  crossed 
the  street,  and  were  already  entering  the  shed,  an 
apartment  of  which  was  in  truth  almost  as  comforta- 
ble as  the  ruinous  chateau. 

"  And  is  this  the  fashion  after  which  you  treat 
Christian  men  in  these  parts  ?"  exclaimed  the  pedlar. 
"  Where's  the  landlord  ?"  he  demanded.  "  By  the 
hokey  1"  he  continued — "  If  I  could  get  hold  of  him 
just  at  this  moment,  I'd  knock  him  into  a  cock'd  hat 
in  a  jifley." 

"  Oh,  Massa  awful  man,"  replied  one  of  the  snow- 
balls. "  He  mak'ee  smell  brim-stone  he  hear'ee  !" 

"  He  may  be  an  airthquake,"  replied  the  pedlar, 
"  for  what  I  care,  but  he'll  never  shake  me,  I  guess." 

Boniface,  however,  fearful  of  the  pestilence,  had 
slunk  away,  and  was  already  mixing  camphor  with 
his  nocturnal  julep,  a*  a  preventive  to  the  disease  he 
was  inviting  by  the  potation. 

The  pedlar  had  amply  provided  himself  for  any 
emergency  of  the  kind,  by  purchasing  and  studying 
Reese's  Treatise  upon  Cholera,  and  laying  in  a  small 
store  of  suitable  medicines,  under  the  direction  of  a 
physician  in  Philadelphia,  before  he  commenced  his 
present  journey.  He  therefore  ordered  lights,  and 
proceeded  to  examine  the  sick  man  —  whom,  by  the 
way,  he  recognized  as  having  seen  somewhere  before. 
There  was  no  mistake,  however,  as  to  the  character 
of  the  disease.  The  stranger  had  probably  contract- 
ed the  oriental  malady  several  days  previous,  and  the 
wild  grapes  which  he  had  been  so  plentifully  eating 


DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  209 

the  day  before,  had  brought  it  upon  him  with  tremend- 
ous severity.  Indeed,  its  progress  had  been  so  rapid, 
that  his  countenance  was  already  assuming  that  livid 
mahogany  color,  which  indicates  the  near  approach  of 
the  blue  stage.  His  tongue  was  becoming  cold,  and  his 
skin  began  to  corrugate.  No  time  was  to  be  lost. 
Following  the  direction  of  the  author  already  men- 
tioned, he  breathed  a  vein  with  his  pen-knife,  and  after 
a  copious  bleeding,  gave  him  a  full  dose  of  calomel, 
of  which  he  had  several  provided.  The  negroes 
were  all  activity  and  attention.  Mustard  poultices 
were  applied  to  his  body,  and  as  he  continually 
begged  for  water,  one  of  the  negroes  was  dispatched 
to  the  ice-house  of  Mr.  Dudley,  whence  he  was 
speedily  forth-coming  with  a  good  supply.  Before  it 
was  time  for  the  calomel  to  take  effect,  the  patient  had 
sunk  into  that  perfect  state  of  composure  which  indi- 
cates an  approaching  collapse.  The  pedlar,  however, 
who  had  witnessed  the  treatment  of  several  cases  in 
the  New- York  hospitals,  did  not  despair,  although  he 
watched  him  for  some  hours  with  trembling  appre- 
hension— not  leaving  the  bed  of  straw  on  which  he 
had  been  placed  for  a  moment.  Feeding  him  plenti- 
fully with  ice,  and  renewing  the  mustard  applications 
as  occasion  required,  before  noon  of  the  following 
day,  the  pedlar  had  the  satisfaction  to  find  all  things 
working  well.  A  few  hours  more,  and  the  change 
was  so  manifest  as  to  afford  strong  confidence  of  a 
recovery.  It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  this  dread- 
ful scourge,  that  restoration  is  frequently  as  rapid  as 
the  progress  of  the  disease.  On  the  second  day, 


210  DICK    MOON,    THE   PEDLAR. 

therefore,  the  pedlar  saw  his  patient  so  far  restored  to 
health,  as  to  feel  safe  in  leaving  him.  With  a 
thousand  thanks  for  his  kindness  and  humanity,  and 
the  offer  of  a  liberal  compensation  in  money,  which 
he  rejected,  the  pedlar  took  his  departure — slipping 
into  the  hands  of  one  of  the  negroes  a  note,  to  be 
delivered  to  the  sick  gentleman,  after  he  was  gone,  of 
which  the  following  is  a  copy : — 

"Regions  of  Inhumanity,  Nov.  25,  1832. 
"  DEAR  SIR, 

"  As  I  calculate  you  are  now  safe  to  do,  I 
have  concluded  to  start  this  afternoon,  and  get  quit  of 
this  pesky  place  as  soon  as  possible — especially  as  I 
am  obleeged  to  be  in  Orleans  next  week,  before  the 
brig  Snap- Dragon  sails  for  Vera  Cruz.  You  have 
had  a  pretty  tight  squeeze  on't,  or  I'm  mistaken. 
Your  face  was  about  as  thin  as  a  hatchet  when  old 
Hardscrabble  turned  you  out-of-doors,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  Yankee  pedlar,  I  think  you'd  have 
twisted  yourself  into  a  corkscrew  in  an  hour  more. 
I  make  no  merit  of  what  I  have  done,  and  I  only 
hope  that  hereafter  you'll  believe  that  all  Yankees 
are  not  so  unfeeling  that  they  cannot  weep  except 
when  they  are  cutting  up  onions;  and  as  I  have 
scorned  to  receive  your  money,  I  guess  you  may  also 
admit  that  it's  not  every  pedlar  who  is  so  greedy  for 
gain,  as  to  skin  flints  and  shad-scales  to  get  it.  The 
niggers  have  all  done  what  they  could  for  you,  and  if 
you  can  give  them  a  few  notions,  without  letting  the 
old  alligator  in  the  house  know  it,  I  calculate  it  won't 


DICK  MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  211 

come  amiss.  Enclosed  I  leave  you  a  dose  or  two  of 
marcury,  and  Doctor  Reese's  receipt,  which,  if  you 
have  a  relapse,  you  can  swallow  for  yourself — not 
the  receipt,  I  don't  mean,  but  the  calomel.  But 
mind  you  don't  eat  any  more  grapes,  or  drink  any 
juleps,  until  the  cholera's  gone.  Enclosed  I  also  send 
you  a  forty  dollar  note  of  'Squire  Biddle's  bank — 
which,  for  your  use,  I  guess  is  pretty  considerably 
better  than  specie — being  the  amount  which  you  paid 
me  fifteen  years  ago  for  Mrs.  Dinwiddie's  counter- 
pane. If  you'll  look  close,  I  guess  you'll  find  the 
bill  is  an  old  acquaintance.  It's  the  same  I  took 
on  you,  whether  or  no.  Howsomever  you  have 
forgotten  me,  though  I  expect  you  don't  forget  to 
remember  the  "  Yankee  trick."  I  had  tho'ts  of 
putting  in  the  interest ;  but  as  it  was  a  trick  of  your 
own  axing,  I  conclude  you  may  lose  that  much,  for 
knowing  more  than  you  did  before.  But  I  must  be 
stirring. 

"  Your  obedient, 

"  RICHARD  MOON. 

u  To  Maj.  Dinwiddie,  of  Virginia. 

"  P.  S.  I  hope  you'll  not  forget  to  remember  to 
present  my  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Dinwiddie 
and  tell  her  she  must  not  lay  that  matter  up  agin  me 
I  expect  I  saw  your  son  on  parade  at  West  Pint  in 
September — his  mother  all  over.  His  eyes  are  as 
bright  as  a  button,  and  he  walks  as  trim  and  straight 
as  a  corn-stalk." 


212  DICK   MOON,   THE   PEDLAR. 

From  the  date  of  this  letter,  until  a  few  weeks 
since,  the  biographer  has  had  no  direct  intelligence 
from  Dick  Moon,  excepting  a  vague  rumor  that  soon 
after  reaching  New-Orleans,  he  had  drawn  for  all  his 
spare  funds  in  the  hands  of  Prime,  Ward  &  King, 
and  had  invested  them  in  a  mining  company  in 
Mexico.  His  friends  in  Saybrook  and  Pettypaug, 
and  even  the  knowing  ones  in  Wall-street,  shook 
their  heads  upon  this  intelligence,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  it's  a  long  road  that  never  turns,  and  Dick  has  doubt- 
less missed  a  figure  at  last."  But  taking  up  a  Mexi- 
can paper  in  August  last,  what  was  the  delight  of  the 
biographer  as  he  glanced  his  eye  upon  the  following 
paragraph : — 

De  la  Catarata  de  la  Libertad  Mejicana, 

Junio  30,  1835. 

Tenemos  el  placer  de  anunciar  que  el  Conducta 
que  dejo  esta  Capital  para  Vera  Cruz,  el  26  de  Mayo, 
llego  sin  novedad  a  Xalapa  el  16  del  corriente.  Se 
acordaran  que  entre  la  propriedad  encargada  a  este 
conducta  fue  un  cantidad  grande  de  Carras  de  plata 
perteneciente  al  Senor  Don  RICARDO  DE  LA  LUNA, 
de  una  de  las  mas  ricas  minas  de  Guanajuato,  de  las 
cuales  dos  afios  hace  vino  a  ser  proprietario  principal 
aquel  caballero.  Ha  inventado  una  maquina  asom- 
brosa  para  trabajar  la  mina,  que  promete  de  por 
cierto  ser  de  mucho  valor  para  toda  clase  de  minas 
de  esta  republica  renaciente.  Cuando  estuvo  en  esta 
capital  el  Sefior  R.  LUNA  estaba  tan  contento  con  la 
hermosura  de  su  situacion,  la  salud  del  clima,  y  las 


DICK  MOON,   THE   PEDLAR.  213 

encantadoras  vistas,  en  medio  de  las  cuales  se  encuen 
tra  la  ciudad  de  Montezuma,  que  compro  la  deliciosa 
mansion — antiguamente  la  propiedad  del  alcalde 
real — como  nuestros  lectores  saben,  de  porfiro  y  de 
amygdaloide,  situada  en  la  parte  occidental  de  la  alame- 
da  directamente  fronteriza  a  la  fuente. 

FREE  TRANSLATION. 

"  From  the  Cataract  of  Mexican  Liberty,  June  30,  1835. 

"We  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing  that  the 
conducta  which  left  this  capital  for  Vera  Cruz,  on 
the  26th  of  May,  arrived  at  Xalapa  without  accident, 
on  the  16th  of  the  present  month.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  among  the  merchandise  entrusted  to  this 
conducta,  was  a  large  quantity  of  silver  bullion, 
belonging  to  RICHARD  MOON,  Esq.,  from  one  of  the 
richest  mines  of  Guanajuato,  of  which  two  years  ago 
that  gentleman  became  the  principal  proprietor.  He 
has  invented  an  ingenious  machine  for  working  the 
mine,  which  promises  to  be  of  great  value  in  the 
mining  operations  of  this  rising  republic.  When  Mr. 
Moon  was  in  this  capital,  he  was  so  much  pleased 
with  the  beauty  of  its  situation,  the  healthiness  of  the 
climate,  and  the  glorious  scenery,  in  the  midst  of 
which  stands  the  city  of  Montezuma,  that  he  pur- 
chased the  delightful  mansion,  formerly  the  property 
of  the  royal  Alcalde,  constructed,  as  our  readers  may 
well  know,  of  porphyry  and  amygdaloid,  situated 
on  the  western  side  of  the  Alameda,  directly  fronting 
the  fountain." 


GREEN'S    POND. 


I  BLESS  thee,  native  shore ! 
Thy  woodlands  gay,  and  waters  sparkling  clear ! 

'Tis  like  a  dream  once  more 
The  music  of  thy  thousand  waves  to  hear, 

As  murmuring  up  the  sand 
With  kisses  hright  they  lave  the  sloping  land. 

The  gorgeous  sun  looks  down, 
Bathing  thee  gladly  in  his  noontide  ray, 

And  o'er  thy  headlands  brown 
With  loving  light  the  tints  of  morning  play. 

The  whispering  breezes  fear 
To  break  the  calm  so  softly  hallowed  here. 

Here,  in  her  green  domain, 
The  stamp  of  Nature's  sovereignty  is  found ; 

With  scarce  disputed  reign 
She  dwells  in  all  the  solitude  around. 

And  here  she  loves  to  wear 
The  regal  garb  that  suits  a  queen  so  fair. 


N, 


GREEN'S   POND.  215 

Oh,  oft  my  heart  hath  yearned 
For  thy  sweet  shades,  and  vales  of  sunny  rest ! 

Even  as  the  swan  returned, 
Stoops  to  repose  upon  thine  azure  breast, 

I  greet  each  welcome  spot, 
Forsaken  long — but  ne'er,  ah!  ne'er  forgot 

T\vas  here  that  memory  grew — 
'Twas  here  that  childhood's  hopes  and  cares  were. 

Its  early  freshness  too  — 
Ere  droops  the  soul,  of  its  best  joys  bereft. 

Where  are  they? — o'er  the  track 
Of  cold  years,  I  would  call  the  wanderers  back  ! 

They  must  be  with  thee  still ! 
Thou  art  unchanged — as  bright  the  sunbeams  play; 

From  not  a  tree  or  hill 
Hath  time  one  hue  of  beauty  snatched  away: 

Unchanged  alike  should  be 
The  blessed  things  so  late  resigned  to  thee ! 

Give  back — oh  smiling  deep! 
The  heart's  fair  sunshine,  and  the  dreams  of  youth, 

That  in  thy  bosom  sleep  — 
Life's  April  innocence,  and  trustful  truth ! 

The  tones  that  breathed  of  yore 
In  thy  lone  murmurs,  once  again  restore ! 

Where  have  they  vanished  all  ? 
Only  the  heedless  winds  in  answer  sigh  — 


216  GREEN'S   POND. 

Still  rushing  at  thy  call. 
With  reckless  sweep  the  streamlet  flashes  by! 

And  idle  as  the  air, 
Or  fleeting  stream,  my  pining  spirit's  prayer  I 

Home  of  sweet  thoughts — farewell! 
Where'er  through  changeful  life  my  lot  may  be, 

A  deep  and  hallowed  spell 
Is  on  thy  waters  and  thy  woods  for  me ! 

Though  vainly  fancy  craves 
Its  childhood  with  the  music  of  thy  waves ! 


PRESENTIMENT. 

A  TALE   OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN. 

BY  A.  D.  PATERSON,  ESft. 


1  I  feel  the  touch  of  a  brother's  hand  near  my  heart,  and  it  does  me 
good."  Joanna  Baillie. 


WHOEVER  would  see  the  great  vivifier  of  nature 
appear,  under  his  most  gorgeous  circumstances,  and 
surrounded  by  the  most  splendid  expanse,  should  be 
sailing  on  the  Mediterranean ;  and  should  rise  betimes, 
if  he  would  indeed  behold  the  whole  magnificent 
scene.  The  young  morning  peeps  forth,  modestly 
clad  in  sober  gray,  but  as  he  advances  he  rapidly 
changes  his  hues,  each  being  richer  and  brighter  than 
that  which  preceded  it,  and  seeming,  as  he  increases  in 
importance,  to  be  the  harbinger  of  the  glorious  orb 
which  is  to  shed  so  wondrous  and  universal  an  influ- 
ence over  the  face  of  creation.  Gradually  the  rapt 
beholder  becomes  entranced  with  the  view  of  still 
accumulating  beauties,  until  at  length  the  sun  himself 
emerges  from  his  ocean-bed,  in  one  unclouded  flood  of 
light  and  splendor  while  in  his  train  come  smiles  and 

19 


as  PRESENTIMENT. 

beauty,  sweetness  and  plenty.  The  soul  of  the 
beholder  seems  exalted  above  itself,  and  he  rises  from 
admiration  of  the  scene  to  adoration  of  its  great 
Creator.  The  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  have  an 
aspect  peculiar  to  themselves,  produced  in  a  great 
measure  by  the  quality  of  the  atmosphere  in  that 
region ;  the  eminences  there  have  a  finer  gray,  the 
valleys  a  deeper  purple,  in  their  tinge ;  while  the 
light  and  elegant  vessels,  propelled  by  sails  adapted 
to  those  waters,  seem  to  glide  fairy-like  from  point  to 
point,  or  make  excursions  over  the  broad  and  smooth 
sea,  as  if  they  were  natives  of  the  element  and  "instinct 
with  life." 

It  is  admirable  to  perceive  with  what  sagacity  as 
well  as  readiness  man  accommodates  circumstances 
to  his  necessity  or  convenience ;  in  marine  inventions 
this  is  perhaps  more  remarkable  than  in  most  others. 
The  peculiarities  of  the  climate,  of  the  sea,  and  even 
the  indentations  of  the  shores,  render  it  proper  to 
adapt  certain  modes  of  propelling,  as  well  as  of  keep- 
ing securely,  vessels  under  sail,  which  would  suit  no 
other  region.  Hence  the  seaman,  who  has  always  his 
full  share  of  national  vanity  at  his  heart,  can  look 
with  complacency  and  delight  upon  the  building  and 
rigging  so  different  from  those  of  his  own  country, 
for  his  practised  eye  informs  him  that  there  is  no 
comparison  to  be  instituted.  The  American  mariner 
in  particular,  feels  no  diminution  of  pleasure  in 
remembering  the  beautiful  cutters  which  skim  along 
the  waters  in  the  bay  of  New- York,  or  in  the  vicinity 
of  Sandy  Hook,  no  humiliating  sensation  as  he  casts 


PRESENTIMENT.  219 

back  the  glance  of  his  mind,  upon  some  Baltimore 
clipper,  which  on  the  broad  Atlantic  could 

"  Walk  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life ;" 

but  sees,  in  the  light  felucca  which  swiftly  glides 
across  the  bays,  being  urged  by  skilful  oarsmen, — 
in  the  lateensa.il  of  the  market-coaster,  which  elegantly 
bends  to  the  breeze  and  rises  in  rebound — in  the 
xebec  and  polacre  with  rigging  so  constructed  as  to 
catch  the  lofty  airs,  yet  so  manageable  as  to  be  taken 
in  with  the  swiftness  of  thought — all  being  adapta- 
tions to  light  airs  and  sudden  squalls,  to  which  the 
Mediterranean  is  peculiarly  obnoxious. 

The  scenery  and  the  objects  which  we  have 
described,  derive  additional  beauty  from  the  opening 
hues  of  a  summer  morning,  from  about  an  hour 
before  sunrise  till  an  hour  after  it.  Visions  of  glad- 
ness and  of  splendor  are  before  us,  and  holy  thoughts 
are  awakened  within  us ;  we  seem  to  rejoice  in  our 
existence,  and  are  ready  to  bless  the  Almighty  hand 
which  has  created  so  much  of  beauty,  and  given  so 
much  of  good. 

It  was  on  such  a  morning,  and  at  such  an  hour, 
that  an  American  vessel  was  seen  with  her  head  to 
the  westward,  nearly  midway  between  the  Algerine 
and  Spanish  coasts,  but  inclining  rather  to  the  shores 
of  Africa.  She  was  homeward  bound  from  Genoa  to 
New- York,  her  name  the  Clinton,  so  called  from  that 
of  a  public-spirited  and  able  governor  of  that  state ; 
her  burthen  about  350  tons,  her  condition  and  appear- 
ance of  a  very  superior  order,  and  her  force  sufficiently 


230  PRESENTIMENT. 

effective  to  protect  her  against  the  ordinary  marauders 
from  the  Barbary  shores.  The  commander  of  the 
Clinton  was  a  powerful  looking  man,  of  the  middle 
age,  with  a  complexion  which  appeared  to  be  the 
result  of  much  hardship,  and  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  climate  in  all  its  varieties.  Like  the  generality 
of  the  American  commanders,  he  possessed  a  degree 
of  intelligence  and  refinement  superior  to  those  of  his 
rank  and  profession  in  the  old  world.  This,  which 
was  the  result  of  a  plain  but  solid  education,  had  kept 
his  mind  clear  of  many  an  absurdity  in  opinion,  and 
many  a  credulity  for  which  the  sons  of  the  ocean 
have,  time  out  of  mind,  been  remarkable.  One  pecu- 
liarity of -feeling  was  however  his;  but  how  it  had 
found  place  in  his  bosom  it  would  be  difficult  to  trace. 
This  was  a  belief  in  presentiment.  It  had  developed 
itself  in  him  while  a  child,  and  years  had  only  served 
to  strengthen  his  faith.  Strange  to  say — the  belief 
had  never  been  confirmed  by  practical  effects,  but  on 
the  contrary  he  adhered  to  it  against  all  experience ; 
sometimes  receiving  from  it  the  consolations  of  hope, 
at  others  experiencing  the  bitter  pangs  of  disappoint- 
ment. Still,  however,  he  clung  to  it;  and  at  the 
moment  in  which  our  story  opens,  this  powerful  feel- 
ing was  exerting  an  influence  over  him  greater  than 
usual. 

It  was  a  little  before  four  o'clock  that  Captain 
Thayer  ascended  the  companion  ladder,  and  having 
looked  first  aloft  and  then  in  the  binnacle,  he  put  his 
glass  to  his  eye,  and  rapidly  but  carefully  swept  the 
horizon  to  the  southward.  After  he  had  repeated 


PRESENTIMENT.  221 

this  examination  two  or  three  times,  he  threw  the  glass 
across  his  arm,  and  continued  leaning,  as  in  thought, 
against  the  larboard  gangway.  From  this  reverie  he 
was  shortly  disturbed  by  the  deep  voice  of  the  first 
mate,  whose  watch  it  was  upon  deck,  calling  out  to 
the  helmsman  "  Port,  sir,  port,  do  you  want  to  run 
the  African  coast  aboard?" 

Captain  Thayer  immediately  stepped  back  to  the 
binnacle  again,  and  looked  at  the  compass;  then, 
turning  to  the  mate,  he  said,  "  I  should  like  just  to 
make  the  land  on  the  south  shore ;  let  them  square 
away  the  yards  a  little,  and  keep  her  head  about 
S.  S.  W." 

"  I  guess  we  are  not  far  from  the  land  now,  sir," 
replied  the  mate,  "  and  if  we  should  let  the  wind  die 
away  upon  us,  the  current  may  drive  us  farther  in 
than  you  would  wish ;  and  those  cut-throat  Algerines 
would  make  a  fine  haul  of  us,  if  it  came  to  boarding." 

The  captain  was  leaning  upon  the  carriage  of  a 
gun,  as  the  mate  made  his  remark,  and  as  he  patted 
the  breech  with  his  hand  he  smiled  and  replied, 
"  No  fear,  Simson,  we  are  no  prize  for  a  corsair ;  but 
to  confess  a  truth,  I  am  anxious  to  get  in  with  the 
land ;  I  have  continually  a  presentiment  concerning 
it,  which  weighs  upon  me  beyond  endurance." 

"  Of  that,"  replied  the  mate  "  I  am  not  ignorant 
This  you  may  remember  is  my  third  year  with  yov 
up  the  Straits ;  and  I  recollect  that  in  all  the  forme) 
voyages  you  hauled  in  for  the  south  side  hereabouts 
I  was  not  then  in  a  condition  to  ask  your  reasons  foi 
keeping  a  course  which  is  not  generally  considered 


222  PRESENTIMENT. 

safest;  but  now  that  I  am  placed  in  my  presen* 
situation,  perhaps  you  may  feel  inclined  to  inform  me." 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  too  ridiculous  to  be  confessed,"  said 
the  former,  "  yet  I  cannot  shake  it  off;  nor  would  I 
wish  to  be  without  the  hope  to  which  it  gives  birth. 
It  is  true,  as  you  say,  that  I  am  following  a  naviga- 
tion neither  usual  nor  approved  in  this  part  of  our 
voyage; — what  is  more,  I  have  steadily  done  the 
same  thing  during  eight  voyages  before  the  present 
one ;  still  more,  I  have  confined  myself  to  this  trade, 
notwithstanding  my  capilal,  my  connexions,  and  my 
experience,  would  enable  me  to  come  to  permanent 
moorings  ashore,  much  sooner  than  the  line  we  are 
in  could  possibly  do. — But  it  is  all  in  vain,"  he  add- 
ed after  a  pause,  "here  I  return  again  and  again ;  my 
hopes  constantly  defeated,  but  never  discouraged.  I 
dwell  on  the  cause  of  my  anxiety  continually.  I 
satisfy  myself  that  my  pursuit  is  like  chasing  the 
Flying  Dutchman,  yet  still  with  dogged  perseverance 
I  return,  in  the  forlorn  hope  that  my  constancy  may 
be  at  length  successful." 

Simson  was  a  plain  honest  seaman,  who  did  not 
understand  the  secret  workings  in  his  commander's 
heart.  He  could  perceive  the  more  obvious  results  of 
any  particular  kind  of  conduct,  and  could  judge  with 
tolerable  accuracy  of  the  probabilities  in  the  train  of 
human  events ;  but  his  presentiments  went  no  farther, 
and  he  could  not  help  considering  this  feeling  in 
Captain  Thayer  as  one  of  the  weaknesses  to  which 
human  nature  is  prone,  and  from  which  no  man  is 
entirely  free.  He  was,  however,  strongly  attached  to 


PRESENTIMENT.  223 

Thayer,  under  whom  he  had  sailed  during  the  last 
three  years,  and  who  had  gradually  brought  him 
forward,  from  before  the  mast  to  the  station  of  first 
mate  of  the  Clinton.  When,  therefore,  he  heard  the 
order  repeated,  he  obeyed  with  alacrity. 

"  Forward  there !  round  in  the  larboard  after 
braces,  and  then  come  aft  and  square  the  head  yards. 
Cooper,  starboard  your  helm ;  let  her  fall  off  to  S.  S. 
W.,  and  keep  her  there." 

This  was  done,  the  watch  was  changed,  but  Captain 
Thayer  remained  walking  the  deck  with  apparent 
inquietude,  frequently  applying  the  glass  to  his  eye, 
and  always  directing  it  to  the  southern  shores. 

The  mate  could  not  avoid  perceiving  that  his  com- 
mander was,  that  morning,  more  than  usually  moved; 
he  therefore  resolved  not  to  retire  to  rest.  So  slip- 
ping below  to  perform  his  ablutions,  and  making 
some  change  in  his  dress  after  the  night  watch,  he 
began  to  move  about  the  ship,  regulating  various 
little  matters,  and  giving  sundry  orders.  It  was  some 
time  ere  Captain  Thayer  perceived  him  to  be  still  on 
deck,  so  much  was  he  absorbed  in  his  own  contem- 
plations; but  at  length  he  cried,  "how now,  Simson, 
don't  you  turn  in  this  watch?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  mate,  "  I  don't  feel  inclined 
to  sleep,  and  would  rather  be  on  deck  to  catch  the 
land-fall." 

"  Ah,  you  are  groaning  in  spirit  like  the  timbers  of 
an  old  ship  in  a  head  sea.  You  are  thinking  of 
corsairs,  and  underwriters, — and  home — and  proba- 
bly love,  Simson.  Well,  you  need  not  look  so  like  a 


S3i  PRESENTIMENT. 

lubber,  man ;  there  is  nothing  in  those  things  that  a 
brave  man  need  be  ashamed  to  own." 

"  Captain  Thayer,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  care  as 
little  about  .self  as  any  man  that  ever  trod  a  plank  ; 
but  I  do  care  much  for  you;  (' thank' ee,  Simson,  I 
am  well  aware  of  that ;' )  and  you  will  excuse  me  if  I 
remind  you  that  in  the  event  of  loss  or  damage,  you 
will  have  to  account  for  running  out  of  your  course, 
and  towards  manifest  difficulties.  Underwriters  are 
hard  men  in  these  cases,  and  if " 

"Pooh,  man,"  said  Thayer,  with  an  air  of  con- 
scious security  and  triumph,  "  the  Clinton  is  no  game 
for  the  corsair; — and  if  she  were, — she  is  half  my 
own,  and  the  other  half  I  could  pay. — And  I  see," 
he  added  eagerly,  "  there  is  the  land,  yonder  is  Cape 
Tenis  on  the  larboard  bow."  His  glass  was  elevated, 
and  again  he  carefully  swept  the  southern  horizon 
with  attentive  eye. 

The  mate  touched  his  elbow  as  he  stood  absorbed 
in  his  investigation,  and  said,  "  excuse  me,  Captain 
Thayer,  you  have  settled  the  affair  of  the  ship  and 
cargo,  but  you  have  not  calculated  the  loss  of  liberty 
to  the  people,  nor  the  difficulty  of  procuring  your  own 
liberty,  if  we  should  be  taken.  Nay,  sir,"  he  added, 
seeing  the  flush  of  anger  rising,  and  observing  the 
hasty  sparkle  in  the  captain's  eye,  "  be  not  offended, 
but  it  is  well  known  that  ships  as  well  provided 
against  attack  as  this  is,  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
superior  numbers  ere  now,  and  once  under  the  power 
of  the  infidels,  our  fate  may  remain  for  years  unknown; 
so  that " 


PRESENTIMENT.  225 

"True,  true,"  exclaimed  Thayer  hastily,  as  if 
stung  by  a  sudden  recollection  ;  "  brace  up  the  yards, 
men; — luff,  luff,  bring  her  to  the  wind."  He  paused 
a  moment,  and  then  added,  "  and  yet  I  have  at  this 
moment  a  presentiment  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  that 
it  will  come  to  pass  this  morning.  I  must  try  it  a 
little  longer.  Simson,  put  her  about,  and  lay  her  to 
on  the  other  tack,  she  will  thus  forge  ahead,  off  shore, 
and  I  will  keep  her  so  but  one  hour  longer. 

Again  his  watch  upon  the  African  shore  became 
intensely  fixed.  In  the  mean  time  the  sun  had  risen, 
and  the  warmth  of  his  beams  was  already  beginning 
to  diffuse  a  languor  over  the  frames  of  the  mariners, 
when  suddenly  the  captain  called  out  "mast-head 
there !  Do  you  see  any  thing  on  the  starboard  quar- 
ter ?" 

The  man  who  was  stationed  there  replied,  after  a 
pause,  that  a  small  boat  was  apparently  pulling  out 
from  the  land.  The  captain  waited  to  hear  no  more, 
but  gave  the  command  "  ready  about."  The  manoeu- 
vre was  quickly  performed,  once  more  the  ship  was 
going  large  on  the  other  tack,  and  was  standing  in 
the  direction  of  the  distant  object. 

"  Get  the  boats  out,"  said  Captain  Thayer,  "  and 
tow  them  astern ;  we  may  want  them  by  and  bye.  — 
"What  all,  sir?"  returned  the  mate.  "Yes,  long 
boat  and  all.  Get  the  tackles  up,  and  hoist  her  out 
as  quickly  as  possible.  Boy,  bring  the  small  arms 
from  below,  and  lay  them  beside  the  companion." 
"  I'll  have  all  ready,  at  least,"  said  he.  "  Oh,  if  it  should 
indeed  be  true !"  The  hope  seemed  to  produce  an 


220  PRESENTIMENT. 

ecstasy  of  feeling  over  him,  and  he  passed  from  side  to 
side,  urging  dispatch,  and  every  moment  taking  a 
glance  at  the  object  of  his  pursuit. 

As  Captain  Thayer  hastily  pased  the  deck,  he 
muttered  in  agitated  tones,  "  will  it  indeed  come  to 
pass  at  length? — Are  my  hopes  to  be  realized  after 
the  long  suspense  which  I  have  endured?  But  I  am 
a  fool !"  he  cried  in  the  next  moment,  "the  chances 
are  a  million  to  one  against  me.  Why  am  I  so 
continually  tormented  with  hopes  which  have  no 
foundation  in  probability?  —  If  I  should  be  disappoint- 
ed this  time,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  resolution,  "  I 
will  abandon  such  fallacious  expectations  for  ever, 
and  strive  to  make  up  my  mind  to  the  loss. — But  if 
it  should  turn  out  to  my  wish !"  he  exclaimed,  and 
his  eyes  sparkled  with  delight,  while  his  weather- 
beaten  countenance  displayed  a  rapture  almost  incom- 
patible with  its  ordinary  rugged  expression; — he  said 
no  more,  but  with  his  glass  he  steadily  searched  the 
distant  boat. 

"  A  large  row-galley  is  in  the  wake  of  the  small 
boat,"  exclaimed  the  look-out  at  the  mast-head ;  "  he 
seems  to  gain  on  the  chase." 

The  Captain  went  aloft  himself;  he  soon  assured 
himself  that  the  first  boat  contained  one  or  more 
fugitives,  and  that  the  latter  was  in  pursuit.  It  was 
also  probable  that  the  galley  would  be  up  with  the 
chase  before  the  ship  could  interfere.  He  hastily 
descended  to  the  deck ;  all  equanimity  seemed  to  have 
forsaken  him ;  with  a  hoarse  and  agitated  voice  he 
gave  orders  to  get  out  studding-sails  and  make  all  sail 


PRESENTIMENT.  227 

in  the  direction  of  the  strange  objects.  "  I'll  run  him 
down,  the  heathen  dog,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  and 
unconscious  of  hearers,  "  if  a  hundred  men  were  in 
his  charge." 

Some  of  the  seaman  were  startled  at  his  vehemence, 
but  obedience  at  sea  is  almost  an  instinct ;  the  mate, 
however,  again  advanced  and  remonstrated.  "  Capt. 
Thayer,"  said  he,  "  let  me  beg  of  you  to  beware  what 
you  do ;  a  hasty  and  fatal  proceeding  may  make  this  a 
national  affair,  depriving  you  at  once  of  honor,  happi- 
ness, and  property." 

"My  brother — my  brother!"  exclaimed  Thayer, 
with  uncontrollable  emotion,  "  my  very  soul  informs 
me  that  my  brother  is  endeavoring  to  escape  in  the 
small  boat.  Oh  God,"  said  he,  in  deep  and  heart- 
searching  tones,  "  if  my  expectations  are  defeated 
now,  I  shall  never  live  to  see  my  native  shore.  —  Ply 
the  men,  Simson,  my  good  fellow,  for  I  have  neither 
sense  nor  observation  but  for  the  chase." 

Accordingly,  every  stitch  of  canvass  was  put  upon 
the  vessel,  but  the  airs  were  light,  and  in  the  mean- 
time the  sweeps  of  the  galley  were  bringing  her 
rapidly  up  with  the  small  boat.  It  was  evident  that 
the  latter  could  not  escape  them.' 

"  Load  the  larboard  forecastle  gun  with  canister, 
and  run  her  out  of  the  bow  port,"  said  the  captain. 
It  was  done.  The  two  boats  neared.  The  captain 
ran  forward,  trained  the  gun  under  his  own  eye, 
seized  the  match, — and  just  as  the  two  boats  were  on 
the  verge  of  touching,  he  lodged  the  contents  of  the* 


228  PRESENTIMENT 

charge  into  the  larger.  The  galley  contained  at 
least  forty  men,  and  the  spread  of  the  canister  shot  did 
great  execution  among  them.  In  the  next  instant  the 
captain's  glass  was  again  applied  to  his  eye,  and 
hardly  had  he  levelled  it,  ere  he  shouted  with  a  voice 
of  thunder,  "  it  is  he,  it  is  he!  Put  arms  in  the  boats 
and  man  them.  My  brother,  my  own  brother  !  —  I 
knew  it,  I  was  sure  of  it !  —  in,  men,  in ;  I  will  go  in 
the  cutter  myself." 

The  men  seemed  to  enter  at  once  into  his  feelings, 
and  the  boats  were  manned  with  an  incredible  alacrity. 
As  he  was  getting  over  the  side,  he  turned  to  the  mate 
and  said,  "  Simson,  keep  your  eye  on  that  heathen  dog, 
but  do  not  fire  unless  you  are  sure  our  own  men  are 
secure  from  the  spread.  If  he  attempt  to  escape,  — 
with  my  brother  on  board,  pour  it  into  him.  God 
will  protect  his  own.  If  he  offers  resistance  after  we 
have  rescued  his  prey,  run  him  down,  sir." 
I  The  most  discordant  passions  seemed  to  have 
possession  of  his  breast  as  he  uttered  these  words ; 
the  most  unbounded  fraternal  affection,  and  the  exces- 
sive desire  of  revenge,  swayed  his  soul.  He  went 
into  the  boat,  and  the  force  rowed  with  all  speed 
towards  the  Algerine. 

It  may  be  necessary  here  to  inquire  as  to  the  cause 
of  this  uncommon  emotion  on  the  part  of  the  worthy 
commander,  and  explain  the  nature  of  that  brotherly 
affection  which  was  now  manifested  in  so  exquisite  a 
degree.  To  do  this  properly,  some  account  of  the 
brothers,  in  the  earlier  period  of  their  lives,  will 


PRESENTIMENT.  229 

furnish  the  elucidation,  and  the  account  may  with 
most  convenience- be  given  here,  while  the  expedition 
is  advancing  upon  its  purpose. 

Robert  Thayer  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  agri 
culturist,  who  cultivated  a  large  farm  of  his  own 
clearing,  in  the  vicinity  of  Pine  Plains,  near  the 
borders  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  father  was  an 
honest  and  well-meaning  man,  but  weak  of  purpose, 
and  subject  to  the  prejudices  and  opinions  of  his 
contemporaries  in  general,  who  were  at  that  period 
but  very  imperfectly  educated ;  the  mother,  however, 
made  large  amends  for  the  infirmities  and  insuffi- 
ciency of  her  husband's  domestic  management.  She 
was  a  strong-minded  prudent  woman,  of  genuine 
piety,  rigid  morality,  and  great  firmness.  It  was  the 
anxious  care  of  this  good  parent  to  extract  the  weeds 
of  error  from  the  soil  of  her  son's  understanding, 
before  it  should  take  too  deep  root,  yet  so  prudently 
was  this  performed,  as  to  leave  no  trace  of  disrespect 
for  her  husband's  peculiarities  in  the  eyes  of  her 
offspring.  There  was  one  weakness,  nevertheless, 
which  the  credulous  but  kind  father  indelibly  fixed 
upon  the  mind  of  young  Robert.  It  was  a  principle 
in  which  he  himself  had  implicit  belief,  and  to  confirm 
which,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  twisting  and  distorting 
every  circumstance  that  crossed  the  line  of  his  creed. 
It  was  presentiment ;  and  occasions  on  which  that  feel- 
ing was  presented  to  his  mind,  being  sometimes  the 
harbingers  of  subsequent  facts,  were  the  never- 
ceasing  themes  of  the  father's  discourse.  It  fastened! 
upon  the  sanguine  heart  of  the  boy,  and  no  lessons  of 


230  PRESENTIMENT. 

his  mother,  not  even  the  frequent  failures  in  expecta- 
tion, could  remove  the  impression.  We  £nd  it  opera- 
ting in  full  vigor,  both  in  manhood,  and  in  advancing 
age. 

What  might  have  been  the  results  of  perseverance 
in  that  exemplary  mother  can  be  only  conjectured. 
Robert  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  her  when  he  was 
only  nine  years  of  age.  Not  indeed  before  a  good 
foundation  was  laid,  and  good  seed  was  sown,  but 
before  it  could  spring  up,  or  entirely  resist  the  weeds 
which  too  readily  choke  it.  The  boy  was  sent  to 
school,  where  the  influence  of  early  habits,  and  a 
tender  remembrance  of  his  mother's  lessons,  did  more 
for  him,  than  could  the  preceptor  with  all  his  lore  j 
yet  that  was  much,  for 

"  'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too, 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  s'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge; 
And  still  folks  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  should  carry  all  he  knew." 

Hitherto,  with  the  exception  of  the  loss  of  his 
mother,  which  he  had  been  too  young  fully  to  appre- 
ciate, the  days  of  young  Thayer  had  been  of  a  halcyon 
kind.  But  the  clouds  began  to  lower.  The  elder 
Thayer,  in  the  death  of  his  amiable  wife,  discovered 
that  he  had  lost  not  only  an  invaluable  partner,  but  a 
manager  of  his  household,  and  a  contributor  to  his 
domestic  comforts,  for  which  nothing  could  atone. 
He  tried  manfully  to  bear  up  under  it,  but  no  resources 
from  within,  nor  varieties  from  without,  could  satisfy 
him.  At  length,  he  was  heard  to  close  a  jeremiad  of 


PRESENTIMENT.  231 

complaint  with  the  following  expression :  "  I  have  a 
strong  presentiment  that  I  shall  shortly  follow  my 
poor  Rachel,  or  else — marry  again."  The  latter 
branch  of  his  foresight  was  correct  enough,  for  the 
week  after  it  was  uttered,  he  brought  home  from 
New- York  a  buxom  girl,  some  years  younger  than 
himself,  the  daughter  of  a  Dutch  provision-merchant 
in  Water-street,  whom  he  had  taken  "  for  better,  for 
worse."  It  was,  however,  more  worse  than  better, 
both  for  her  husband  and  her  son-in-law.  With 
regard  to  the  former,  she  was  continually  upsetting 
his  schemes,  and  ridiculing  his  presentiments,  both  of 
which  were  his  weak  or  rather  his  strong  points ;  for 
the  more  he  was  opposed  the  better  he  liked  them, 
the  more  she  endeavored  to  lower  them  the  higher 
they  were  raised  in  his  esteem.  But  like  all  men 
without  internal  strength,  he  gradually  succumbed  to 
a  noisy  shrew,  who  soon  exercised  unlimited  sway 
in  the  family. 

Of  course,  Robert  soon  fell  in  for  a  full  share  of  the 
good  dame's  dislike ;  for,  besides  the  hereditary 
cause,  that,  namely,  of  his  being  a  step-son,  he  was 
fond  of  his  father,  to  whom  he  behaved  always  with 
affectionate  regard  and  duty,  and  he  deeply  revered 
the  memory  of  his  mother,  of  whom  he  spoke  more 
highly  and  more  frequently  than  was  agreeable  to  the 
ears  of  her  successor.  She  therefore  resolved  most 
piously  to  mar  a  happiness  in  which  she  had  no 
share,  and  even  to  rid  the  house  of  an  "expensive  boy, 
who  was  none  of  hers."  « 

In  this  she  was,   of  course,   successful.     Under 


238  PRESENTIMENT. 

pretence  that  lie  was  old  enough  to  assist  on  the  farm, 
she  caused  him  to  be  taken  from  school ;  and  then, 
by  finding  fault  with  every  thing  he  did,  she  made 
him  feel  his  home  to  be  any  thing  but  what  the  word 
implies.  His  father  saw  it  all  with  regret,  but  the 
shackles  were  upon  his  own  energies,  and  all  that  he 
could  do  for  their  mutual  relief,  was  to  take  his  son  with 
him,  from  time  to  time,  to  New- York,  when  he  went 
with  a  sloop-load  of  butter,  cheese,  or  flour,  for  the 
market  there. 

The  boy  had  a  double  reason  to  hail  the  periods  of 
these  excursions.  They  brought  him  into  the  busy 
haunts  of  men,  where  he  saw  commerce  with  her 
anxious  face,  pleasure  with  her  witching  smile,  and 
variety  in  all  her  charms ;  he  felt,  besides,  that  he  was 
for  the  present  beyond  the  sphere  of  a  tyrannical  step- 
mother, and  needed  not  to  guard  his  words  or  hide 
his  delight.  But  his  attention  was  chiefly  engaged 
by  the  shipping ;  and  he  often  longed  to  make  a 
voyage,  to  see  foreign  parts,  and  to  be  "  lord  of  him- 
self." These  desires  became  stronger  at  each  visit, 
and  were  always  the  highest  when  he  was  about  to 
return  home. 

At  length  Mrs.  Thayer  found  herself  "  as  ladies 
wish  to  be  who  love  their  lords ;"  and  Robert,  now 
fifteen  years  of  age,  was  more  than  ever  disagreeable 
in  her  sight.  His  father's  house  was  no  longer  an 
endurable  home,  and  upon  the  next  journey  to  New- 
York,  he  declared  his  anxious  wish  to  go  to  sea. 
"Father,"  said  he,  "I  have  long  wished  to  make  a 
trial,  and  /  have  a  presentiment  that  you  will  see  me 


PRESENTIMENT.  233 

a  rich  and  fortunate  man, — able,  and  I  am  sure  you 
believe,  willing,  to  make  your  old  days  happy  " 

The  father  was  loth  to  part  with  his  son,  but  the 
presentiment  was  unanswerable.  Arrangements  were 
made,  clothes  and  necessaries  were  bought,  and  all 
things  were  concluded,  except  the  ceremony  of  asking 
Mrs.  Thayer's  consent,  in  which  neither  of  them 
dreamed  of  a  refusal ;  and  here,  without  a  presenti- 
ment, they  were  right.  After  a  feigned  anger  and 
appearance  of  sorrow,  but  real  delight,  at  the  boy's 
apparent  wilfulness,  she  consented  to  let  him  "  feel 
the  difference  between  a  safe  and  comfortable  home, 
and  a  life  of  hardship  among  strangers  in  distant 
lands."  He  was  therefore  equipped,  and  in  due  time 
set  sail  upon  a  long  voyage  to  the  western  shores  of 
America. 

From  this  time  his  lot  in  life  was  fixed.  He 
became  a  seaman ;  he  loved  his  profession  and  soon 
excelled  in  it;  he  was  quickly  discovered  to  be  a 
youth  of  superior  parts  and  manners,  and  it  required 
no  presentiment  to  see  that  if  he  escaped  the  ordinary 
dangers  of  human  life,  and  those  peculiar  to  his  own 
department  in  it,  he  would  rise  to  eminence  and 
wealth.  On  his  return  to  New- York  after  any 
voyage,  his  father  always  came  down  to  visit  him,  as 
his  duties  prevented  him  from  going  up  to  Pine  Plains. 
He  learned  that  his  mother-in-law  had  miscarried,  and 
had  with  difficulty  recovered ;  but  with  sorrow  he  also 
learned  that  this  catastrophe,  instead  of  softening  her 
into  affection  towards  the  young  sailor,  had  only 
raised  a  feeling  of  envy  in  her  soul,  and  she  was 
so* 


231  PRESENTIMENT. 

continually  prognosticating  evil  in  her  husband's  ear, 
against  the  heartless  young  ingrate,  "  who  could 
ramble  the  world  over  rather  than  stay  to  comfort  the 
declining  years  of  his  parents."  All  this,  however, 
fell  harmless,  for  the  meek  husband  had  it  all  to 
himself,  and  he  had  taken  on  the  yoke  so  easily,  that 
he  hardly  felt  its  weight.  But  the  presentiment  of 
his  boy  was  ever  before  him ;  it  became  his  stay  and 
comfort. 

Upon  Robert's  return  from  another  voyage  round 
Cape  Horn,  he  again  found  his  father  waiting  to 
receive  him,  but  wearing  the  badge  of  a  mourner. 
"  Robert,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  poor  Sally  is  gone,  and 
has  left  the  child  of  her  wishes  as  soon  as  he  saw  the 
light.  Come  home  with  me,  and  embrace  your 
brother."  Robert's  heart  leaped  within  him  at  the 
sound.  The  tie  was  a  new  one,  and  his  affectionate 
disposition  led  him  to  cherish  it  with  even  a  woman's 
ardor.  "  Father,"  said  he,  "  /  have  a  presentiment, 
that  this  boy  will  be  a  comfort  and  a  blessing  to  us 
both."  Poor  lad !  his  divinations  were  erroneous, 
and  their  futility  was  quickly  demonstrated. 

Robert's  heart  clung  to  his  infant  brother.  It  was 
a  new  feeling,  and  was  rather  like  that  of  a  parent 
for  his  offspring  than  that  of  fraternal  affection.  Too 
soon  he  had  indeed  to  become  a  second  parent  to  the 
child,  for  his  own  sickened  and  died  within  a  few 
days  after  his  son's  return  to  the  paternal  mansion. 
Robert  was  now  alone  in  the  world,  save  this  tie. 
which  had  been  mysteriously  conjured  up  to  receive 
the  full  tide  of  kindness,  and  to  bind  him  to  social 


PRESENTIMENT.  236 

life.  He  determined  to  watch  over  the  boy's  life  and 
happiness,  and  to  derive  his  own  greatest  comfort 
from  contributing  to  that  of  his  orphan  brother.  At 
this  time  he  was  about  eighteen,  and  was  on  the  eve 
of  a  voyage  to  the  Mauritius,  as  mate  of  a  ship.  He 
therefore  carefully  but  speedily  put  the  infant  Henry 
into  the  hands  of  a  kind  nurse,  and  left  his  own 
affairs,  including  the  paternal  inheritance,  in  the 
charge  of  an  honest  but  distant  relative. 

Things  continued  thus  during  several  voyages,  in 
the  course  of  which  Robert  Thayer  attained  to  the 
command  of  a  vessel.  At  each  return  his  first  care 
was  to  visit  the  child  of  his  adoption,  the  brother  of  his 
affection,  and  all  his  resources  were  bent  to  the  desire 
of  contributing  to  the  boy's  happiness  and  welfare. 
On  the  part  of  Henry,  as  he  grew  up,  his  love  for  his 
brother  seemed  more  and  more  to  respond  to  that 
which  was  bestowed  upon  him,  and  in  short  it  might 
be  said  that  there  was  but  one  sentiment  between 
them,  save  that  it  was  pure  fraternal  love  on  the  part 
of  Robert,  and  love  increased  by  gratitude  on  the 
side  of  Henry. 

Henry  Thayer  had  attained  his  fifteenth  year,  when 
the  first  personal  misfortune  in  the  professional  career 
of  his  brother  befel  him.  Captain  Thayer  had  taken 
a  cargo  for  London ;  from  thence  he  had  taken  in  a 
valuable  freight  for  Malaga,  and  brought  back  returns 
in  wine  and  fruits  for  his  native  port.  At  London, 
the  crew  had  deserted  him;  some  from  that  restless 
disposition  so  peculiar  to  the  generality  of  sea-faring 
men,  and  others  from  the  hope  of  advantages,  such  as 


236  PRESENTIMENT. 

the  American  seaman,  above  all  others,  can  obtain  in 
the  maritime  world.  In  short,  he  had  to  ship  an 
almost  entirely  fresh  crew,  and  they  turned  out  to  be 
of  a  very  inferior  description.  Nothing  particular 
happened  in  the  voyage  to  Malaga;  but  on  the  return 
across  the  Atlantic,  in  the  month  of  January,  they 
encountered  bad  weather,  and  many  of  his  lubberly 
crew  betook  themselves  to  their  hammocks.  With 
the  few  men  who  continued  at  their  duty,  he  continued 
to  work  the  ship,  but,  unfortunately,  just  as  they  were 
entering  the  gulf-stream,  a  sudden  squall  carried  away 
two  of  his  topmasts. 

It  was  night  when  this  disaster  took  place,  and, 
together  with  the  reduced  force  under  his  command, 
he  ran  imminent  risk  of  damage  in  two  ways ;  first, 
in  his  upper  works,  by  the  dashing  about  of  broken 
yards  and  masts  as  they  hung  by  the  rigging,  and 
secondly,  in  his  hull,  after  the  wreck  was  cut  over- 
board. Poor  Thayer  was  unfortunate  in  both  cases. 
While  using  his  utmost  endeavors  with  his  remnant 
of  a  crew  to  get  the  wreck  cut  overboard,  the  maintop 
gallant  yard-arm  struck  him  on  the  head  with  such 
violence,  as  to  cause  a  severe  contusion.  He  was 
borne  insensible  to  his  cabin,  and  a  most  important 
assistance  was  thus  cut  off  The  rigging  and  wreck, 
in  falling  afterward  overboard,  fell  over  to  leeward, 
and,  before  it  could  be  cut  entirely  away,  had  damaged 
the  vessel  under  the  bows  so  greatly,  that  it  became 
necessary  to  keep  the  hands  to  the  pumps. 

It  was  now  no  longer  necessary  to  urge  the  skulk- 
ers to  their  duty.  Self-preservation  will  furnish  an 


PRESENTIMENT.  237 

argument  which  indolence  herself  cannot  resist.  The 
misfortune  which  faithfulness  and  alacrity  might  pro- 
bably have  prevented,  necessity  enabled  them  in  some 
degree  to  remedy ;  though  at  the  expense  of  greatly 
increased  labor,  and  unlooked-for  danger.  Of  the  latter, 
however,  there  was  more  in  store.  In  the  crippled 
state  of  the  upper  works,  and  the  all  but  water-logged 
condition  of  the  vessel,  she  sailed  heavily  and  was 
steered  with  difficulty.  At  length,  however,  the 
welcome  lands  of  Neversink  were  presented  to  their 
view,  and  they  began — ah,  too  prematurely — to 
congratulate  each  other,  that  their  toils  were  at  a 
close.  Heavily  they  neared  Sandy-Hook,  and  hove 
to  for  a  pilot ;  hours  passed,  and  no  pilot  appeared, 
while  the  experienced  head  and  eye  of  her  commander, 
which  could  have  directed  her  through  the  intricacies 
of  the  small  remaining  navigation,  were  unhappily 
withdrawn  through  the  severity  of  his  wounds  and 
bruises. 

Evening  arrived,  and  no  pilot.  The  mate,  there- 
fore, reluctantly  resolved  to  stand  out  to  sea-ward 
during  the  night,  and  hoped  for  better  success  on  the 
morrow.  That  evil,  most  to  be  dreaded  on  our  coasts, 
a  snow-storm,  came  on ;  the  wind  gradually  shifted 
until  the  ship's  head  was  lying  northwest,  and  bearing 
directly  towards  the  Long-Island  shores.  It  became 
necessary  to  wear  round,  but  by  this  time  the  running 
rigging  was  as  stiff  as  icicles;  the  few  men  able  to 
work  could  neither  stand,  by  reason  of  the  slipperi- 
ness  of  the  deck,  nor  exert  themselves  from  the  exces- 
sive severity  of  the  cold,  and  constant  fall  of  sleet, 


?38  PRESENTIMENT. 

which  benumbed  all  their  limbs.  The  ropes  would 
not  render  through  the  blocks,  and  to  crown  all,  the 
ship  would  not  answer  her  helm.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Human  strength  and  human  wisdom  could 
no  more.  It  was  in  vain  that  inward  sentiments  of 
remorse  struck  some  of  the  lately  indolent  crew.  The 
energies  produced  by  despair  were  too  late  for  action. 
On  she  drove,  until  at  length  a  harsh  grating  was 
perceived  under  her  bows,  a  jumping,  beating  sensa- 
tion followed  as  the  vessel  was  forced  upon  the  sand, 
— one  sudden  shock,  a  heel  to  one  side, — and  she 
was  a  wreck  upon  the  shore. 

Happily,  no  lives  were  lost.  —  In  the  morning 
intelligence  was  transmitted  to  New- York  of  the 
calamity  which  had  befallen  the  ship,  and  Captain 
Thayer,  half  dead  with  shame  and  weakness,  was 
carried  to  the  city.  A  long  series  of  good  fortune 
and  success  furnishes  but  an  indifferent  school  of 
fortitude  under  subsequent  misfortune.  As  inferior 
officer,  and  as  commander,  Thayer  had  hitherto 
brought  his  voyages  to  a  prosperous  issue ;  now,  a 
sense  of  so  fatal  a  reverse  preyed  upon  his  thoughts, 
and  tended  greatly  to  retard  his  recovery.  His 
affectionate  brother  was  however  by  his  bedside, 
watching  every  look,  preventing  every  wish,  and 
striving,  by  a  thousand  assiduities,  to  smooth  the 
sick  bed,  and  to  restore  his  mind  to  composure. 
It  is  only  when  the  soul  is  under  the  influence  of 
remorse  that  such  endeavors  fail,  and  accordingly  the 
genial  effects  of  brotherly  kindness,  and  of  his  own 
wiser  thoughts,  now  began  to  appear.  He  recovered, 


PRESENTIMENT.  239 

but  his  regards  had  so  fastened  upon  the  boy,  that, 
when  the  latter  proposed  to  accompany  his  brother  in 
his  next  voyage,  although  Captain  Thayer  had  des- 
tined him  for  another  and  more  brilliant  lot  in  life,  he 
had  not  the  resolution  to  deny  him.  He  had  his 
reward,  for  his  profession,  to  which  he  was  always 
attached,  now  became  doubly  delightful.  Every 
occasion  was  laid  hold  of  to  instruct  his  brother  in 
the  duties  of  a  seaman,  and  pains  and  expense  were 
lavished,  during  the  brief  intervals  of  their  being  in 
port,  to  make  him  an  able  navigator  and  scientific 
man. 

Five  years  had  thus  passed  over,  when  one  morn- 
ing at  breakfast,  in  London,  the  'younger  Thayer, 
wTith  some  hesitation,  addressed  the  elder  to  the  follow- 
ing effect.  "  Brother  Robert,  I  have  somewhat  to 
propose  to  you, — and  yet  I  know  not  how  to  begin 
it, —  such  has  been  your  uniform  kindness  to  me,  that 
no  parent  could  have  gone  beyond  you ;  — but  I  feel 
it  due  to  us  both,  to  lay  my  wishes  before  you ;  and  I 
think  —  I  hope — that  is,  I  think  you  will  accord 
with  me,  that  the  step  should  be  taken." 

"Well,  Harry,  what  is  it? — Speak  out,  man, 
never  stammer  thus,  but,  if  it  is  fit  to  be  heard,  tell 
your  story  boldly.  Am  I  not  your  brother?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Robert,  more  than  that !  brother  and 
father  in  one; — but,  I  fear  that  even  your  affection 
will  thwart  the  proposal  I  wish  to  make." 

"  It  must  be  very  unreasonable  then,  Harry — but, 
once  more,  out  with  it." 

Henry,   after    a   slight    and    agitated    indecision, 


ajO  PRESENTIMENT. 

proceeded.  "  You  know,  my  dear  Robert,  that  the 
sea  is  now  decidedly  my  profession,  and  it  behoves 
me  to  know  it  well  in  all  its  bearings.  I  ought  to  be 
acquainted  with  the  best  and  with  the  worst  of  it, 
with  the  practice  of  foreign  nations,  as  well  as  with 
that  of  our  own,  and  above  all,  I  ought  to  know  how 
to  be  left  to  my  own  resources.  Now,  hitherto,  your 
tenderness  has  warded  off  from  me  many  a  difficulty 
and  hardship,  to  which  the  life  of  a  seaman  is  ob- 
noxious. It  has  been  all  calms  and  sunshine  with  me, 
and  I  know  not  how  I  should  act  in  a  sudden  emergen- 
cy. I  would  propose  therefore  —  not  that  we  should 
separate  long,"  he  added,  speaking  rapidly,  "  but  — 
that  I  should  make  a  voyage  or  two  in  British  or 
other  foreign  bottoms,  and  then  I  will  return,  and 
either  sail  with  you  or  for  you ;  for  it  will  be  fit  that 
you  should  begin  to  take  some  repose  after  your 
labors." 

Captain  Thayer  was  utterly  confounded.  He  had 
never  for  a  moment  contemplated  the  possibility  of  a 
separation ;  but  happy  in  the  present  posture  of  affairs, 
he  had  gone  on  from  voyage  to  voyage,  from  year  to 
year,  seeing  his  young  and  sprightly  brother  accumu- 
late knowledge,  and  strength,  acquiring  the  love  of 
the  various  crews,  by  whom  he  was  from  time  to 
time  surrounded;  and  in  the  continued  feeling  of  each 
succeeding  hour  had  never  dreamed  of  change.  It  was 
put  to  him  now  however,- with  plain  good  sense,  to 
which  his  own  responded  ;  but  he  would  fain  have 
combated  his  own  judgment  in  favor  of  private  regard. 
The  younger  Thayer  per-severed,  and  finally  carried 


PRESENTIMENT.  341 

the  day.  With  a  heavy  heart,  and  with  a  presenti- 
ment of  ill-fortune,  Captain  Thayer  accompanied  his 
brother  among  the  merchants  and  shipmasters,  in 
order  to  procure  for  him  the  offiee  of  second  mate  of 
a  West-Indiaman ;  for,  though  fully  capable  to  taking 
the  superior  charge  of  first  mate,  in  which  capacity 
he  hud  sailed  two  voyages,  yet  in  pursuance  of  his 
purpose  he  determined  for  the  lower  grade.  He 
obtained  it  without  difficulty;  and  with  strong  feelings 
of  regret,  but  with  unalterable  regard,  the  brothers 
parted,  after  arranging  a  steady  and  punctual  corres- 
pondence. 

For  many  a  day  they  were  doomed  to  be  separated. 
Many  an  anxious,  many  a  painiiil  hour  was  the  result 
of  this  separation.  That  which  in  the  pride  of  human 
foresight  had  been  considered  laudable  and  wise,  was 
the  prolific  source  of  misfortune  and  anxiety,  and 
should  teach  mankind,  in  the  midst  of  ambitious 
projects,  to 

"  Walk  humbly  then  — with  trembling  pinions  soar." 

The  vessel  in  which  Henry  Thayer  was  embark- 
ed, was  returning  from  Barbadoes,  at  the  time  that 
the  expedition  under  Lord  Exmouth  was  fitted  out  for 
Algiers.  They  were  boarded  by  one  of  the  ships  of 
the  squadron,  and  young  Thayer  was  impressed. 
In  vain  he  urged  that  he  was  an  American  citizen, 
and  not  liable  to  such  a  forcible  seizure.  In  vain, 
also,  the  captain  of  the  merchantman  protested  against 
the  violence.  In  both  cases  it  was  believed,  as  was 
sometimes  the  case,  that  the  reasons  were  assumed  to 
21 


ti'2  PRESENTIMENT. 

save  the  man,  particularly  as  young  Thayer  had  not 
his  credentials  to  produce.  Moreover  there  was 
probably  an  additional  reason  in  secret,  that  if  he 
were  really  American,  they  might  be  able  to  retain 
him  from  the  difficulty  of  conveying  information,  or 
of  any  one  stirring  in  his  behalf.  Be  that  as  it  might, 
he  was  impressed,  and  his  first  sensations  were  those 
of  the  most  unqualified  indignation.  He  soon  found, 
however,  that  in  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  a  man 
of  war,  the  only  refuge  is  a  present  submission,  and 
he  resolved  to  do  the  duties  which  were  imposed  upon 
him  cheerfully.  This  was  a  wise  resolution;  he 
acquired  by  it  the  regard  of  his  officers,  and  if  he 
eould  have  determined  to  pursue  his  profession  in 
that  line,  he  would  probably  have  met  the  fullest 
encouragement.  But  this  was  not  to  be. 

The  squadron  reached  its  destination,  the  bombard- 
ment took  place,  and  the  Algerines  were  for  the 
moment  humbled.  Young  Thayer,  who  had  been 
made  coxswain  of  one  of  the  boats,  was  coming  off 
from  the  shore  with  his  officer.  It  was  evening,  and 
somewhat  later  than  usual.  They  were  carrying  a 
press  of  canvas,  in  order  to  reach  the  vessel  before 
dark,  when  suddenly  they  were  upset  by  a  squall. 
The  people  were  presently  in  the  boat  again,  and  it 
was  righted ;  — but  the  coxswain  was  missing.  He 
had  been  thrown  clear  of  the  sails,  and  was  picked 
up  oy  a  small  boat,  in  which  were  three  fishermen. 
They  immediately  pulled  away  with  him,  in  a  direc- 
tion to  the  westward  of  the  city,  and  landed  him  in  an 
obscure  creek,  where  there  were  other  boats  of  a 


PRESENTIMENT.  913 

similar  description  to  their  own.  Deeply  resenting 
the  humiliation  to  which  their  city  had  been  subject- 
ed by  the  British  commander,  and  their  revenge 
being  farther  whetted  by  the  consideration  that  it  was 
"  Christian  dogs"  who  had  inflicted  the  injury,  their 
first  impulse  was  to  put  him  to  death.  Cupidity, 
however,  triumphed  even  over  revenge ;  or  rather, 
they  thought  of  enjoying  a  double  revenge,  by  selling 
their  victim  into  captivity.  They  departed  with  him, 
therefore,  several  miles  into  the  interior,  and  found 
no  difficulty  in  disposing  of  him  j  where  he  was  kept 
to  hard  labor,  for  which  his  compensation  was  starva- 
tion, insult,  and  stripes. 

It  was  now  that  the  young  man  regretted  his 
fancied  sagacity,  and  wished  that  he  had  listened  to 
his  brother's  remonstrances.  But  it  was  too  late  to 
repine,  and  his  elastic  spirits  were  sustained  by  the 
hope  of  escape.  To  this  object  he  bent  all  his  ener- 
gies, and  this  end  he  never  ceased  to  have  in  view ; 
but  the  state  of  a  Christian  slave  in  Algiers  is  one  of 
such  unmitigated  rigor,  and  the  poor  wretches  are 
under  such  a  perpetual  surveillance,  that  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year,  passed  away  without 
offering  him  an  effectual  opportunity.  He  had, 
indeed,  made  some  progress  in  an  acquaintance  with 
an  English  renegado,  who  acted  in  the  capacity  of 
superintendent;  but  Thayer  was  slow  to  make  a 
confidant  of  one  who  had  renounced  his  faith.  By 
degrees,  however,  he  was  induced  to  think  better  of 
the  man,  who  protested  that  he  had  never  swerved  in 
heart  from  the  religion  of  Christ,  but  imagined  that 


2M  PRESENTIMENT 

he  might  dissemble  for  the  sake  of  relaxation,  and 
the  hope  of  ultimate  liberty.  Thayer  admitted  the 
plea  in  extenuation,  as  coming  from  one  whose  prin- 
ciples had  not  been  perfectly  fortified,  but  failed  not 
to  urge  upon  him  the  insult  he  had  offered,  and  the 
want  of  confidence  he  had  shown  to  the  God  in  whom 
he  professed  to  trust.  They  gradually  became  assured 
in  each  other,  arid  a  plan  was  concocted  of  making 
their  way  to  the  sea-side,  seizing  a  boat,  pulling  off* 
into  the  wide  Mediterranean,  and  then  trust  to  Provi- 
dence to  be  taken  up  by  some  friendly  vessel.  They 
did  so,  but  were  missed  from  the  mansion  of  their 
patron  sooner  than  they  had  expected.  A  large  boat 
was  launched  in  pursuit  of  them;  whilst  they,  know- 
ing that  liberty  or  death  were  before  them,  strained 
every  nerve  to  escape. 

In  the  meantime,  Captain  Thayer  became  acquaint- 
ed with  the  impressment  of  his  brother,  and  imme- 
diately a  process  was  instituted  for  his  restitution. 
An  order  was  sent  out  for  the  prompt  discharge  of 
Henry  Thayer ;  but,  by  the  earliest  returns,  a  report 
was  brought  that  the  young  man  had  perished  by  the 
upsetting  of  a  boat  in  the  bay.  The  detail  of  the 
circumstances  left  an  impression  on  the  mind  of 
Thayer,  that  his  brother  had  not  perished,  but  was 
among  the  Algerines.  He  would  not  give  way  to  a 
contrary  belief,  but  rather  fortified  himself  in  his 
opinion,  by  all  kinds  of  delusive  reasoning.  His 
presentiment  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  the  farther 
it  was  removed  from  probability ;  and  he  immediately 
changed  his  line  of  trading  to  a  permanent  Mediterra- 


PRESENTIMENT.  215 

nean  voyage,  in  the  forlorn  hope  that  his  brother 
would  break  from  his  restraint,  and  that  he  should 
have  the  satisfaction  to  bear  him  away.  —  Constantly, 
in  going  up  or  coming  down  that  sea,  he  edged 
towards  the  southern  shore,  and  always  kept  the  flag 
of  his  country  displayed.  But  hitherto  without 
success. 

At  length,  how  extravagant  soever  they  might  be, 
the  visions  of  his  hope  seemed  on  the  eve  of  realiza- 
tion. He  saw  the  boats,  he  prepared  himself  for  the 
interesting  result,  and  they  were  now  coming  to  the 
issue. 

The  scattering  shot  from  the  ship,  as  has  been 
already  observed,  wounded  two  or  three  persons  in 
the  large  boat,  and  caused  a  momentary  confusion. 
This  was  succeeded  by  rage  and  fury,  and  presently 
fresh  way  was  given  towards  the  devoted  fugitives. 
They  approached,  they  nearly  touched, — when  the 
long-boat  of  the  American  shot  in  between,  and  in 
the  same  instant  Captain  Thayer,  standing  up  in  the 
stern-sheets,  knocked  overboard  the  moor  in  the  bow 
of  the  adversary.  In  the  same  instant  two  shots 
were  heard  from  the  infidel  vessel,  one  of  which 
grazed  Thayer's  left  shoulder,  and  the  other  caused  a 
piercing  shriek  from  the  flying  boat.  He  hastily 
turned,  and  beheld  his  half  rescued  brother  covered 
with  gore  that  was  streaming  from  his  forehead. 

Maddened  at  the  sight,  he  sprung  into  the  boat 
which  contained  him,  exclaiming  to  his  men,  "  kill, 
kill  the  dogs;  — no  quarter — my  brother — my  poor 
murdered  Harry."  The  word  operated  like  magic 


316  PRESENTIMENT. 

on  his  people — they  fought  like  desperadoes, — and  to 
say  truth,  so  did  the  Algerines;  but  the  vessel  was 
nearing  them,  and  though  foaming  with  rage,  impo- 
tent rage,  at  the  loss  of  their  captives,  and  the  destruc- 
tion among  their  own  people,  they  were  obliged  to 
retreat. 

In  the  mean  while  Captain  Thayer  was  holding  his 
bleeding  brother  to  his  breast,  calling  him  by  all  the 
endearing  names  that  fervent  affection  and  agitated 
spirits  could  suggest.  "  Harry,"  he  cried,  "  my  own 
boy,  my  brother  Harry ; — live,  live,  oh  live,  and  bless 
your  poor  Robert's  old  days  as  you  promised.  —  You 
are  rescued,  you  are  free,  my  Harry.  Here,  men," 
he  cried  to  his  people  who  had  now  ceased  fighting, 
"  let  the  dogs  go,  lay  hold  of  the  painter,  and  tow  us 
alongside  as  quickly  as  possible. — Harry,  look  at 
me — show  me,  only  by  your  eyes,  that  you  know  me, 
and  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

The  poor  young  man  slowly  lifted  up  his  languid 
eyes,  and  a  faint  smile  indicated  that  he  was  sensible 
as  to  who  held  him. 

"  That  will  do,  that  will  do,  my  boy,  my  own  boy — 
don't  speak  now,  don't  speak.  Pull  away,  boys,  for 
dear  life.  Give  way,  my  hearties.  —  I'll  make  the 
fortune  of  every  man  of  ye."  He  again  hung  over 
the  sufferer,  with  mingled  anguish  and  delight, 
stanching  the  blood  with  his  handkerchief,  and  con- 
tinually forbidding  him  to  stir  or  speak. 

They  arrived  at  the  ship.  The  careful  mate,  who 
had  seen  all  that  passed,  had  got  a  whip  and  a  chair 
rigged,  and  in  one  minute  more  he  was  on  board  and 


PRESENTIMENT.  247 

in  the  cabin. — Vain  cares,  vain  hopes !  A  few  heavy 
groans  were  uttered  by  the  sufferer,  each  of  which 
went  to  his  brother's  heart; — presently  afterwards, 
he  articulated  faintly,  "  Robert  —  my  dear  Robert." 

"Here,  Harry,  here — here  is  Robert — be  quiet, 
and  take  rest,  my  dear  lad." 

"  Dear  Robert — "  whispered  the  dying  man  — 
"so — happy — to  see  you — once — again."  After  a 
pause,  he  again  faltered — "dying — Robert — Lord, 
be  merciful — God  bless  you — my  brother."  —  He 
was  no  more. 

It  was  a  few  moments  ere  Captain  Thayer  could 
believe  the  reality  of  his  loss.  When  convinced  that 
he  was  gone,  he  remained  a  short  time  as  in  a  stupor 
of  grief;  but  by  degrees  his  brows  knit,  his  face  was 
suffused  with  bloodN  the  veins  of  his  temples  swelled. 
He  rushed  on  deck,  where  he  found  the  breeze  fresh- 
ening towards  a  gale. 

"  Set  the  foresail,  haul  aft  the  lee  clew  of  the  main- 
sail." It  was  done.  "  Away  aloft,  and  let  out  every 
reef.  Clap  on  all  sail.  Go  you,  sir,"  added  he,  with 
a  dark  and  mysterious  expression,  to  the  helmsman, 
"  lend  a  hand,  I'll  take  the  helm  meanwhile." 

The  seamen  were  aloft; — the  keen  eye  of  Thayer 
marked  the  track  of  the  retreating  boat; — he  steered 
right  into  her  wake,  and  regardless  of  the  cries  of  the 
wretched  Moors,  and  of  his  own  crew, — he  went  clear 
over  them,  destroying  every  man.  Looking  over  the 
taffrail,  he  viewed  with  his  own  eyes  the  destruction 
he  had  committed,  he  gloated  over  it,  as  a  most 
acceptable  sacrifice,  and  uttering  a  laugh  of  the  most 


948  PRESENTIMENT. 

horrific  sound,  he  sank  exhausted  on  the  deck.  He 
was  taken  below,  where  after  some  time  he  recovered 
to  life, — but  not  to  reason. 

His  employment  from  henceforth  was  to  talk  of,  or 
to  his  deceased  brother,  and  so  much  was  he  wrap- 
ped up  in  the  corse,  that  it  was  found  difficult  to  inter 
the  latter  in  the  deep  waters.  But  the  health  of  the 
crew  required  it,  and  opportunity  was  taken,  whilst 
the  poor  maniac  slept,  to  consign  the  unfortunate 
young  man  to  his  watery  tomb. — But  their  precau- 
tions were  fruitless.  At  the  very  moment,  the  awful 
moment,  when  the  body  was  launched  over  the  gang- 
way, a  sudden  rush  was  heard,  a  splash  followed,  and 
it  was  found  that,  even  in  death,  poor  Thayer  would 
not  be  divided  from  the  child  of  his  hopes  and 
affections. 


V 


KAATSKILL. 


"Like  the  bird,  just  'scaped 

From  the  close  caging  of  some  gentle  dame, 
Showing  its  freedom's  consciousness  in  song 
Not  less  than  flight." 


WHEN  to  the  city's  crowded  streets 
The  fiercer  spells  of  summer  come, 

Then,  for  thy  calm  and  cool  retreats, 

Sweet  Kaatskill !  may  the  wanderer  roam. 

Then  may  he  seek  thy  guardian  haunts, 
Thy  quiet  stream,  thy  shady  tree, 

And,  while  the  world  around  him  pants, 
From  all  oppression  find  him  free. 

Above  him  towers  thy  giant  form, 
Rock-heaved,  and  rising  like  a  king ; 

Around  him  rides  thy  summer  storm, 
With  cooling  freshness  on  its  wing  1 


KAATSKILL. 

Below  him  —  what  a  scene  is  there! 

The  hallowed,  sweet  repose  of  home ; 
The  sheltered  green,  the  waters  clear, 

And,  snugly  small,  the  cottage  dome 

Gathering  above,  the  thickening  clouds 
The  sun's  intenser  beams  would  chide, 

In  quiet,  but  commingling  crowds, 
Down-bending  to  the  unbroken  tide. 

See,  where  the  boatman  speeds  his  barque 
As'sped  the  Indian  chief  of  old, 

Bound  on  some  errand,  wild  and  dark, 
Whose  story  is  as  yet  untold. 

Proof  of  the  sacred,  sweet  repose, 
The  farmer's  cattle  seek  the  place, 

And,  as  the  waters  round  them  close, 
Give  to  the  scene  an  added  grace — 

The  grace  of  home,  the  charming  cot, 
Domestic  peace,  unbroken  joy, 

Known  only  to  the  humble  lot — 
Dreamed  only  by  the  enthusiast  boy. 

Yet,  not  alone  his  dream,  since  here 
Nature  has  nobly  done  her  part ; 

And,  in  her  colors,  prompt  and  clear, 
A  kindred  triumph  comes  from  art. 


KAAT8KILU  261 

Thus,  to  the  city,  well  transferred, 

The  painter's  pencil  bears  the  scene — 

And  there  the  streamlet,  there  the  bird, 
The  forest,  and  the  summer's  green. 

There  glides  the  barque,  there  lies  the  tree  — 

The  quiet  cottage  heaves  in  sight, 
Until  each  form,  again,  I  see, 

That  once  could  give  my  heart  delight. 

CLAUDE. 


WASHINGTON. 


AND  the  Genius  of  Death,  with  his  brow  bound 
about  with  the  gloomy  hemlock,  and  bearing  in  his 
hands  a  living,  but  a  leafless,  cypress,  stood  beside 
the  couch  where  Washington  lay : 

"  I  will  quench  this  light,"  said  the  Genius — "  I 
will  overcome  this  lofty  spirit,  which,  forgetting  me, 
mankind  delights  to  honor." 

"Thou  quench  this  light, — thou  overcome  this 
spirit!" — replied  the  Genius  of  Eternal  Fame,  stand- 
ing also  beside  the  couch  of  the  sleeping  Father;  — 
"  Oh,  fool,  that  thou  art !  — he  hath  given  thee  immor- 
tality in  dying  at  thy  hands." 


ISOLATED  AFFECTION. 


"  True  love,  still  born  of  heaven,  is  bless'd  with  wings, 
And,  tired  of  earth,  it  plumes  them  back  again, 
And  so  we  lose  it." 


I. 

DEEP  in  the  bosom  of  a  southern  forest,  there  grew 
a  beautiful  flower,  the  sweetest  flower  in  that  lonely 
region.  Its  leaves  were  of  the  purest  white,  for  the  first 
time  unfolding  to  the  world  around  them,  and  reveal- 
ing, as  they  did  so,  the  fine  and  delicate  droppings  of 
violet  and  purple,  which  before,  like  so  much  hidden 
wealth,  had  lain  in  its  bosom.  Its  odor  was  fresh 
and  exquisite,  and  no  flower  in  all  that  forest,  could 
come  near  it  for  sweetness  or  for  beauty.  In  excel- 
lence as  in  condition,  it  was  equally  alone. 

II. 

But  it  was  not  destined  to  be  alone  always.  There 
came  to  it  one  morning  in  May,  a  golden  butterfly — 
a  rover  among  the  flowers — -an  ancient  robber  of 
their  sweets.  Gayly  he  plied  his  flight  throughout 
the  forest,  now  here  and  now  there,  sporting  about  in 
a  sort  of  errant  unconsciousness.  It  was  not  long 
before  he  inhaled  the  odor — it  was  not  long  before 


ISOLATED   AFFECTION.  253 

he  saw  the  pure  white  leaves,  and  looked  down,  with 
a  yearning  eye,  upon  the  rich  droppings  of  purple 
and  violet  which  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  flower. 

IIL 

Flying  around  in  mazy  but  still  contracting  circles, 
he  gazed  upon  the  loveliness  of  the  flower,  and  grew 
more  and  more  enamoured  at  each  moment  of  his 
survey.  "  Surely,"  he  thought,  "  this  is  a  flower  by 
itself  —  love's  own  flower — dwelling  in  secret — 
blooming  only,  and  budding,  for  his  eyes,  and  denied 
to  all  beside.  It  is  my  good  fortune  to  have  found  it — 
I  will  drink  its  sweets  —  I  will  nestle  in  its  bosom — 
I  will  enjoy  its  charms  as  I  have  enjoyed  a  thousand 
others." 

IV. 

Even  with  the  thought,  came  the  quick  resolution, 
and  another  moment  found  him  lying — lying  close 
and  pressed  upon  the  bosom  of  the  flower.  There 
was  a  slight  effort  to  escape  from  the  embraces  of  the 
intruder — the  flower  murmured  its  dissent,  but  the 
murmur  died  away  into  a  sigh,  and  the  sigh  was 
inhaled,  as  so  much  honey,  by  the  pressing  lips  of  the 
butterfly.  He  sung  to  the  flower  of  his  love — he, 
the  acknowledged  rover — the  unlicensed  drinker  of 
sweets — the  economical  winner  of  affections,  with 
which  he  did  not  share  his  own — he  sung  to  the 
flower  a  story  of  his  love ;  and,  oh !  saddest  of  all, 
the  young  flower  believed  him. 


25*  ISOLATED  AFFECTION. 

V. 

And  day  after  day  he  came  to  the  stolen  embrace, 
and  day  after  day,  more  fondly  than  ever,  the  lovely 
flower  looked  forth  to  receive  him.  She  surrendered 
her  very  soul  to  his  keeping,  and  her  pure  white 
leaves  grew  tinged  with  his  golden  winglets,  while  his 
kisses  stained  with  yellow  the  otherwise  delicate 
loveliness  of  her  lips.  But  she  heeded  not  this,  so 
long  as  the  embrace  was  still  fervent — the  kiss  stili 
warm — the  return  of  the  butterfly  still  certain. 

VI. 

But  when  was  love  ever  certain?  — not  often  where 
the  lover  is  a  butterfly.  There  came  a  change  over 
the  fortunes  of  the  flower,  for  there  came  a  change 
over  the  habits  of  the  butterfly.  He  gradually  fell  off 
in  his  attentions.  His  passion  grew  cool,  and  the 
ease  of  nis  conquest  led  him  to  undervalue  its  acqui- 
sition. Each  day  he  came  later  and  later,  and  his 
stay  with  the  flower  grew  more  and  more  shortened 
at  every  return.  Her  feelings  perceived  the  estrange- 
ment long  before  her  reason  had  taught  her  to  think 
upon  or  understand  it. 

VII. 

At  length  she  murmured  her  reproaches — and  the 
grievance  must  be  great  when  love  will  venture  so 
far.  "Wherefore,"  she  said,  "Oh,  wherefore  hast 
thou  lingered  away  so  long.  Why  dost  thou  not 
now,  as  before,  vie  with  the  sunlight  in  thy  advances? 
I  have  looked  for  thee  from  the  dawning,  yet  I  have 


ISOLATED  AFFECTION.  255 

looked  for  thee  in  vain.  The  yellow  beetle  has  been 
all  the  morning  buzzing  about  me,  but  I  frowned 
upon  his  approaches.  The  green  grasshopper  had  a 
song  under  my  bush,  and  told  me  a  dull  story  of  the 
love  which  he  had  for  me  in  his  bosom;  and,  more 
than  once,  the  glittering  humming  bird  has  sought 
my  embraces,  but  I  shut  my  leaves  against  him. 
Thou  only  hast  been  slow  to  seek  me — thou  whom, 
only,  I  have  looked  to  see." 

VIII. 

Gayly  then  the  butterfly  replied  to  these  reproaches, 
nor,  as  he  spoke,  heeded  the  increasing  paleness  of 
the  flower:  "  Over  a  thousand  forests  I've  been  flying, 
each  as  beautiful  as  this — on  a  thousand  flowers  I've 
been  'tending,  none  less  lovely  to  the  sight  than  thou. 
How  could'st  thou  dream  that  with  a  golden  winglet, 
broad,  and  free,  and  beautiful,  like  mine,  in  a  single 
spot  I  still  should  linger,  of  the  world  around  unknow- 
ing aught  1  No,  no  — mine  is  an  excursive  spirit ;  for  a 
thousand  free  affections  made;  —  wouldst  thou  have 
me,  like  a  groping  spider,  working  still  to  girdle  in 
myself?" 

IX. 

It  was  a  murmuring  and  a  sad  reply  of  the  now 
isolated  flower,  and  she  lived  not  long  after  she  had 
made  it :  "  Ah,  now  I  know  mine  error — my  sad 
error — having  no  wings  myself,  to  mate  with  the 
lover  who  had.  Alas !  that  I  have  loved  so  fondly  and 
foolishly,  for  while  thou  hast  gone  over  a  thousand 


266  ISOLATED   AFFECTION. 

forests,  seeing  a  thousand  flowers,  I  have  only  known, 
only  looked,  only  lived  for,  a  single  butterfly." 

X. 

The  false  one  was  soon  away,  after  this,  to  another 
forest;  for  his  ear  loved  not  reproaches,  and  he  had 
sense,  if  not  feeling  enough,  to  know  that  they  were 
uttered  justly.  The  flower  noted  his  departure,  and 
its  last  sigh  was  an  audible  warning  to  the  young  bud 
which  it  left  behind  it.  The  wood-spirit  heard  the 
sigh  and  the  warning ;  and  when  the  bud  began  to 
expand  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  he  persuaded  the 
black-browed  spider  to  spin  his  web,  and  frame  his 
nest,  in  the  thick  bushes  that  hung  around  it;  and 
many  were  the  wanton  butterflies,  after  this,  who, 
coming  to  prey  upon  the  innocent  affection,  became 
entangled,  and  justly  perished  in  the  guardian  net- 
work thus  raised  up  to  protect  it. 


A   LIVING   POET. 


OH  !  gaze  not,  with  sarcastic  smile, 
Upon  his  foppish  gait  and  air ; 
Nor  deem  poetic  feeling  all 
Mere  fancied  mockery,  false  as  fair ! 

He  was  not  always  what  he  is !  — 
His  boyish  years,  his  early  youth, 
Saw  him  an  ardent  worshipper 
Of  beauty,  purity,  and  truth. 

His  heart  was  like  an  echoing  dell ; 
The  moaning  brook,  the  mother's  voice, 
Each  wild  unwritten  melody, 
Could  make  it  murmur,  or  rejoice. 

He  searched  for  April  violets ; 
He  lingered  in  the  moonlit  air, 
To  gaze  upon  the  sky  of  June, 
To  praise  and  bless  the  dweller  there. 

Then  the  full  tide  of  visions  high, 
Of  holy  love,  of  swelling  bliss, 
Burst  forth  in  fresh  and  heartfelt  song ; 
Oh  1  then  he  was  not  what  he  is. 

28* 


A  LIVING  POET. 

Alas !  that  beauty  e'er  should  cause 
Her  fond  idolater  to  fall ! 
Why  did  he  leave  her  peaceful  haunts 
To  seek  her  in  the  crowded  hall ! 

In  that  cold,  uncongenial  clime, 
His  better  nature  drooped  and  died ; 
His  fancy  stooped,  his  purpose  failed, 
His  heart  was  chilled,  his  faith  denied1. 

Oft,  when  the  winds  have  sunk  to  sleep, 
The  sea  still  rolls  its  billows  blue ; 
Thus,  still  he  sings ;  —  but  sings  past  thoughts, 
And  feelings  such  as  once  he  knew. 

And  the  affected  verses  show 
The  pallid  hues,  the  sick  perfume, 
Of  buds,  which,  gathered  in  the  grove, 
Have  opened  in  a  heated  room. 

SlGNOEINA. 


INNOCENZA. 


THOU  art  not  a  being  of  upper  air  — 

Though  thy  form  be  as  slender,  thy  beauty  as  rare ! 

Nor  a  daughter  of  the  bounding  sea  — 

Though  thy  smile  be  as  sunny,  thy  bosom  as  free ! 

Thou  art  not  the  Dryad's  woodland  child  — 
Though  the  glance  of  thine  eye  be  as  timidly  wild ! 
Nor  nymph  on  the  margin  of  haunted  rill  — 
Nor  fairy  that  circles  the  moonlit  hill. 

Spirits  are  these  —  but  of  humbler  birth, 
Than  the  heavenly  soul  of  a  child  of  earth. 
Spirits  are  these  —  that  must  fade  and  die  — 
But  a  spirit  art  thou  of  eternity. 

For  a  Christian  mother  o'er  thee  did  raise 
A  prayer  of  hope,  and  a  hymn  of  praise  — 
That  thou  mightst  pass,  when  life  be  spent, 
Pure  to  thy  maker,  and  innocent. 

Sadly  she  soothed  thy  plaintive  wail, 
Till  the  rosy  hues  of  her  cheek  grew  pale, 
Wearily  watching  thine  infant  bed, 
While  sleep  from  her  heavy  eyelids  fled. 


260  INNOCENZA. 

And  fondly  she  looked,  that  a  brighter  day 
Those  sorrowful  hours  should  well  repay  — 
A  day  of  long  and  brilliant  years, 
Full  of  promise,  and  free  from  tears.  — 

And  she  trembles  now  with  a  fearful  delight, 
As  she  gazes  on  thee,  thou  blossom  bright  — 
Oh !  may  no  breath  of  sin  or  slight 
Steal  o'er  thy  flowerets,  to  banish  their  light ! 

The  ills — that  must  be  to  all  our  race  — 

Mayest  thou  bear  with  patience,  and  humble  grace  j 

Brighter,  and  better,  and  happier  still, 

Till  thy  years  shall  have  passed  the  brow  of  the  hill ! 

Then — when  thy  path  shall  be  downward  turned, 
And  heaven  desired,  yet  earth  not  spurned  — 
To  tny  long  home  pass,  in  calm  content, 
Pure  as  thou  now  art,  and  innocent ! 


A  NIGHT 


'THE   ENCHANTED   MOUNTAINS." 


BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP   A  WINTER  IN  THE  WEST.' 


THERE  are  few  parts  of  our  broad  country,  which, 
for  beauty  of  scenery,  amenity  of  climate,  and,  I 
might  add,  for  the  primitive  and  interesting  character 
of  the  inhabitants,  can  compare  with  the  mountainous 
region  of  eastern  Tennessee. 

It  is  a  wild  and  romantic  district,  composed  of 
rocks  and  broken  hills,  where  the  primeval  forests 
overhang  valleys  watered  by  limpid  streams  whose 
meadowy  banks  are  grazed  by  innumerable  herds  of 
cattle.  The  various  mountain  ridges,  which  at  one 
point  traverse  the  country  almost  in  parallel  lines, 
while  at  another  they  sweep  off  in  vast  curves,  and 
describe  a  majestic  amphitheatre,  are  all,  more  or  less, 
connected  with  the  Appalachian  chain,  and  share  the 
peculiarities  which  elsewhere  characterize  the  Alle- 
ganies.  In  some  places,  the  transition  from  valley 
to  highland  is  so  gradual,  that  you  are  hardly  aware 
of  the  undulations  of  the  surface  when  passing  over 
it.  In  others,  the  frowning  heights  rise  in  precipitous 


2C2  THE  ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS. 

Walls  from  the  plains ;  while  again  their  wooded  and 
dome-like  summits  will  heave  upward  from  the 
broad  meadows  like  enormous  tumuli  heaped  upon 
their  bosom. 

The  hills,  also,  are  frequently  seamed  with  deep 
and  dark  ravines,  whose  sheer  sides,  and  dimly 
descried  hottom,  will  make  the  eye  swim  as  it  tries  to 
fathom  them,  while  often  they  are  pierced  with 
cavernous  galleries  which  lead  miles  under  ground, 
and  branch  off  into  grottoes  so  spacious  that  an  army 
might  be  marshalled  within  their  yawning  chambers.* 

Here,  too,  those  remarkable  conical  cavities  which 
are  generally  known  by  the  name  of  "  sink  holes", 
in  the  western  country,  are  thickly  scattered  over  the 
surface,  and  so  perfect  in  shape  are  many  of  them, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  persuade  the  ruder  residents  that 
they  are  not  the  work  of  art,  nor  fashioned  out  as 
drinking  bowls  for  the  extinct  monsters  whose  fossil 
remains  are  so  abundant  in  this  region.  Indeed,  the 
singular  formation  of  the  earth's  surface,  with  the 
entire  seclusion  in  which  they  live  amid  their  pastoral 
valleys,  must  account  for,  and  excuse  many  a  less 
reasonable  belief  and  superstition  prevailing  among 
those  hospitable  mountaineers.  "  The  Enchanted 
Mountains,"  as  one  of  the  ranges  we  have  been 
attempting  to  describe  is  called,  are  especially  distin- 
guished by  the  number  of  incredible  traditions  and 
wild  superstitions  connected  with  them.  Those 

*  The  great  limestone  cavern  of  Kentucky,  which  has  been 
explored  twelve  miles  in  one  direction,  is  said  in  the  current 
phrase  of  the  country,  to  extend  under  a  whole  county. 


THE    ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS.  263 

uncouth  paintings  along  their  cliffs,  and  the  foot-prints 
of  men  and  horses  stamped  in  the  solid  rock  upon 
the  highest  summits,  as  mentioned  by  Mr.  Flint  in 
his  Geography  of  the  Western  Country,  constitute 
but  a  small  part  of  the  materiel  which  they  offer  to 
an  uneducated  and  imaginative  people  for  the  creation 
of  strange  fantasies.  The  singular  echoes  that 
tremble  at  times  through  these  lonely  glens,  and  the 
shifting  forms,  which,  as  the  morning  mist  rises  from 
the  upland,  may  be  seen  stealing  over  the  tops  of  the 
crags,  and  hiding  themselves  within  their  crevices, 
are  alike  accounted  for  by  superaatural  causes. 

Having  always  been  imbued  with  a  certain  love  ot 
the  marvellous,  and  being  one  of  the  pious  few,  who, 
in  this  enlightened  age  of  reality,  nurse  up  a  lingering 
superstition  or  two,  I  found  myself,  while  loitering 
through  this  romantic  district,  and  associating  upon 
the  most  easy  terms  with  its  rural  population,  irresis- 
tibly imbibing  a  portion  of  the  feeling  and  spirit 
which  prevailed  around  me.  The  cavernous  ravines 
and  sounding  aisles  of  the  tall  forests,  had  "  airy 
tongues"  for  me,  as  well  as  for  those  who  were  more 
familiar  with  their  whisperings.  But  as  for  the 
freakish  beings,  who  were  supposed  to  give  them 
utterance  as  they  pranked  it  away  in  the  dim  retreats 
around,  I  somehow  or  other  could  never  obtain  a  fair 
sight  of  one  of  them.  The  forms  that  sometimes 
rose  between  my  eyes  and  the  mist-breathing  cascade, 
or  flitted  across  the  shadowy  glade  at  some  sudden 
turn  of  my  forest  path,  always  managed  to  disappear 
behind  some  jutting  rock,  or  make  good  their  escape 


2t)4  THE  ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS. 

into  some  convenient  thicket,  before  I  could  make  out 
their  lineaments,  or  even  swear  to  their  existence  at 
all.  My  repeated  disappointment  in  this  way  had 
begun  to  put  me  quite  out  of  conceit  of  my  quickness 
and  accuracy  of  vision,  when  a  new  opportunity  was 
given  of  testing  them  in  the  manner  I  am  about  to 
relate. 

I  happened  one  day  to  dine  at  a  little  inn  situated  at 
the  mouth  of  a  wooded  gorge,  where  it  lay  tucked 
away  so  closely  beneath  the  ponderous  limbs  of  a 
huge  tulip  tree,  that  the  blue  smoke  from  the  kitchen 
fire  alone  betrayed  its  locality.  My  host  proved  to 
be  one  of  those  talkative  worthies,  who,  being  sup- 
plied with  but  little  information  to  exercise  his  tongue 
upon,  make  amends  for  the  defects  of  education  and 
circumstance  by  dwelling  with  exaggeration  upon 
every  trivial  incident  around  him.  Such  people,  in 
polished  society,  become  the  scandal  mongers  of  the 
circle  in  which  they  move,  while  in  more  simple 
communities  they  are  only  the  chroniclers  of  every 
thing  marvellous  that  has  ever  occurred  in  the  neigh- 
borhood "  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant." 
I  had  hardly  placed  myself  at  the  dinner  table,  before 
my  garrulous  entertainer  began  to  display  his  reten- 
tive faculties  by  giving  me  the  exact  year  and  day 
upon  which  every  chicken  with  two  heads,  or  calf 
with  five  legs,  had  been  born  throughout  the  whole 
country  around.  Then  followed  the  most  minute 
particulars  about  a  murder  or  two  which  had  been 
perpetrated  within  the  last  twenty  years;  and  after 
this  I  was  drilled  into  the  exact  situation  and  bearings 


'/HE  ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS.  265 

of  a  haunted  house  which  I  should  probably  see  the 
next  day  by  pursuing  the  road  I  was  then  traveling; 
finally,  I  was  inducted  into  all  the  arcana  of  a 
remarkable  cavern  in  the  vicinity — where  a  moon-elf 
or  water-sprite  had  taken  up  her  residence,  to  the 
great  annoyance  of  every  one  except  my  landlord's 
buxom  daughter,  who  was  said  to  be  upon  the  most 
enviable  terms  with  the  freakish  lady  of  the  grotto. 
The  animated  and  really  eloquent  description  which 
mine  host  gave  of  this  cavern,  made  me  readily 
overlook  the  puerile  credulity  with  which  he  wound 
up  his  account  of  its  peculiarities.  It  interested  me, 
indeed,  so  much,  that  I  determined  to  stable  my  horse 
for  the  night,  and  proceed  at  once  to  explore  the  place. 
A  fresh  and  blooming  girl,  with  the  laughing  eye 
and  free  step  of  a  mountaineer,  volunteered  te  be  my 
guide  on  the  occasion,  hinting,  at  the  same  time, 
while  she  gave  a  mischievous  look  at  her  father,  that 
I  would  find  it  difficult  to  procure  a  cicerone  other 
than  herself  in  the  neighborhood.  She  then  directed 
me  how  to  find  the  principal  entrance  to  the  cave, 
where  she  promised  to  join  me  soon  after. 

A  rough  scramble  in  the  hills  soon  brought  me  to 
the  place  of  meeting,  and  entering  the  first  chamber 
of  the  cavern,  which  was  large,  and  well  lighted  from 
without,  I  stretched  myself  upon  a  rocky  ledge 
which  leaned  over  a  brook  that  meandered  through 
the  place,  and,  lulled  by  the  dash  of  a  distant 
waterfall,  surrendered  myself  to  a  thousand  musing 
fancies.  Fatigue,  or  possibly  too  liberal  a  devotion 
to  the  good  things  which  had  been  placed  before 


2C6  THE  ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS. 

me  at  table,  caused  me  soon  to  be  overtaken  by 
sleep.  My  slumbers,  however,  were  broken  and 
uneasy,  and  after  repeatedly  opening  my  eyes  to  look 
with  some  impatience  at  my  watch,  as  I  tossed  upon 
my  stony  couch,  I  abandoned  the  idea  of  a  nap 
entirely,  while  momentarily  expecting  that  my  guide 
would  make  her  appearance,  and  contented  myself 
with  gazing  listlessly  upon  the  streamlet  which 
rippled  over  its  pebbled  bed  beneath  me.  I  must 
have  remained  for  some  time  in  this  vacant  mood, 
when  my  idle  musings  were  interrupted  by  a  new 
source  of  interest  presenting  itself. 

A  slight  rustling  near  disturbed  me,  and  turning 
round  as  I  opened  my  eyes,  a  female  figure  in  a 
drapery  of  snowy  whiteness  appeared  to  flit  before 
them,  and  retire  behind  a  tall  cascade  immediately  in 
front  of  me.  The  uncertain  light  of  the  place,  with 
the  spray  of  the  waterfall,  which  partially  impeded 
my  view  of  the  farther  part  of  the  cavern,  made  me 
at  first  doubt  the  evidence  of  my  senses ;  but  gradually 
a  distinct  form  was  perceptible  amid  the  mist,  appa- 
rently moving  slowly  from  me,  and  beckoning  the 
while  to  follow.  The  height  of  the  figure  struck 
me  immediately  as  being  about  the  same  as  that  of 
the  frank  daughter  of  my  landlord  ;  and,  though  the 
proportions  seemed  more  slender,  I  had  no  doubt, 
upon  recalling  her  arch  expression  of  countenance 
while  her  father  was  relating  to  me  the  wild  super- 
stitions of  the  cavern,  that  a  ready  solution  of  one 
of  its  mysteries  at  least  was  at  hand.  Some 
woman's  whim,  I  had  no  doubt,  prompted  the  girl  to 


THE  ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS.  267 

get  up  a  little  diversion  at  my  expense,  and  sent  her 
thither  to  put  the  freak  in  execution.  I  had  been 
told  that  there  were  a  dozen  outlets  to  the  cavern,  and 
presumed  that  I  was  now  to  be  involved  in  its  laby- 
rinths for  the  purpose  of  seeing  in  what  part  of  the 
mountain  I  might  subsequently  make  my  exit.  He 
is  no  true  lover  of  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  who  will 
mar  the  jest  of  a  pretty  woman.  The  lady  beckoned, 
and  I  followed. 

I  had  some  difficulty  in  scaling  the  precipice,  over 
which  tumbled  the  waterfall,  but  after  slipping  once 
or  twice  upon  the  wet  ledges  of  rock  which  supplied 
a  treacherous  foot-hold,  I  at  last  gained  the  summit, 
and  stood  within  a  few  yards  of  my  whimsical 
conductor.  She  had  paused  upon  the  farthest  side  of 
the  chamber  into  which  the  cavern  here  expanded. 
It  was  a  vast  and  noble  apartment.  The  lofty  ceiling1 
swelling  almost  into  a  perfect  dome,  save  where  a 
ragged  aperture  at  the  top  admitted  the  noon-day  sun, 
whose  rays,  as  they  fell  through  the  vines  and  wild 
flowers  that  embowered  the  orifice,  were  glinted  back 
from  a  thousand  sparry  points  and  pillars  around. 
The  walls,  indeed,  were  completely  fretted  with 
stalactites.  In  some  places,  small,  and  apparently 
freshly  formed,  they  hung  in  fringed  rows  from  the 
ceiling  to  the  ground.  In  others  they  drooped  so 
heavily  as  to  knit  the  glistening  roof  to  the  marble 
floor  beneath  it,  or  rose  in  slender  pyramids  from  the 
floor  itself,  until  they  appeared  to  sustain  the  vault 
above. 

The  motion  of  the  air  created  by  the  cascade  gave 


268  THE   ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS. 

a  delightful  coolness  to  this  apartment,  while  the 
murmur  of  the  falling  water  was  echoed  back  from 
the  vibrating  columns  with  tones  as  rich  and  melodious 
as  those  which  sweep  from  an  ^Eolian  harp.  Never, 
methought,  had  I  seen  a  spot  so  alluring.  And  yet, 
when  I  surveyed  each  charm  of  the  grotto,  I  knew 
not  whether  I  could  be  contented  in  any  one  part  of 
it.  Nothing,  indeed,  could  be  more  inviting  to  tran- 
quil enjoyment  than  the  place  where  I  then  stood ; 
but  the  clustering  columns,  with  their  interlacing 
screen  work  of  woven  spar,  allured  my  eye  into  a 
hundred  romantic  aisles  which  I  longed  to  explore ; 
while  the  pendant  wild  flowers  which  luxuriated  in 
the  sun-light  around  the  opening  above,  prompted  me 
to  scale  the  dangerous  height,  and  try  what  pinnacle 
of  the  mountain  I  might  gain  by  emerging  from  the 
cavern  through  the  lofty  aperture. 

These  reflections  were  abruptly  terminated  by  an 
impatient  gesture  from  my  guide,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  countenance  as  she 
glided  by  a  deep  pool  in  which  it  was  reflected. 

That  glance  had  a  singular,  almost  a  preternatural 
effect  upon  me — the  features  were  different,  very 
different,  from  those  I  had  expected  to  behold.  They 
were  not  those  of  the  new  acquaintance  whom  I 
thought  I  was  following,  but  the  expression  they 
wore  was  one  so  familiar  to  me  in  by-gone  years,  that 
I  started  as  if  I  had  seen  an  apparition. 

It  was  the  look  of  one  who  had  been  long  since 
dead — of  one  around  whose  name,  when  life  was 
new,  the  whole  tissue  of  my  hopes  and  fears  was 


THE   ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS.  269 

woven — for  whom  all  my  aspirations  after  worldly 
honors  had  been  breathed — in  whom  all  my  dreams 
of  heaven  had  been  wound  up.  She  had  mingled  in 
purer  hours  with  all  the  fond  and  home-loving  fancies 
of  boyhood — she  had  been  the  queen  of  each 
romantic  vision  of  my  youth ;  and,  amid  the  worldly 
cares  and  selfish  struggles  of  maturer  life,  the  thought 
of  her  had  lived  separate  and  apart  in  my  bosom, 
with  no  companion  in  its  hallowed  chamber  save  the 
religion  I  had  learned  at  my  mother's  knee — save 
that  hope  of  better  things,  which,  once  implanted  by 
a  mother's  love,  survives  amid  the  storms  and  conflicts 
of  the  world — a  beacon  to  warn  us  more  often, 
alas  !  how  far  we  have  wandered  from  her  teachings, 
than  to  guide  us  to  the  haven  whither  they  were 
meant  to  lead.  I  had  loved  her,  and  I  had  lost  her. 
How,  it  matters  not.  Perchance  disease  had  reft  her 
from  me  by  some  sudden  blow,  at  the  moment  when 
possession  made  her  dearest.  Perchance  I  saw  her 
fade  in  the  arms  of  another,  while  I  was  banned  and 
barred  from  ministering  to  a  spirit  that  stole  away  to 
the  grave  with  all  I  prized  on  earth.  It  boots  not  how 
I  lost  her.  But  he  who  has  centered  every  thought 
and  feeling  in  one  only  object — whose  morning 
hopes  have  for  years  gone  forth  to  the  same  goal — 
whose  evening  reflections  have  for  years  come  back 
to  the  same  bourne — whose  waking  visions,  and 
whose  midnight  dreams,  have  for  years  been  haunted 
by  the  same  image — whose  schemes  of  toil  and 
advancement  have  all  tended  to  the  same  end — He 
knows  what  it  is  to  have  the  pivot  upon  which  every 


270  THE  ENCHANTED   MOUNTAINS. 

wheel  of  his  heart  hath  turned,  wrenched  from  its 
centre — to  have  the  sun  round  which  revolved  every 
joy  that  lighted  his  bosom,  plucked  from  its  system. 

Well,  it  was  her  face — as  I  live  it  was  the  soul- 
breathing  features  of  Linda  that  now  beamed  before 
me — fresh  as  when  in  dawning  womanhood  they 
first  caught  my  youthful  fancy — resistless  as  when 
in  their  noon-tide  blaze  of  beauty  I  poured  out  my 
whole  adoring  soul  before  them.  Theie  was  that 
same  appealing  look  of  the  large  lustrous  eyes — the 
same  sunny  and  soul-melting  smile,  which,  playing 
over  a  countenance  thoughtful  even  to  sadness, 
touched  it  with  a  beauty  so  radiant  that  the  charm 
seemed  borrowed  from  heaven  itself.  I  could  not  but 
think  it  strange  that  such  an  image  should  be  pre- 
sented to  my  view  in  such  a  place ;  and  yet,  if  I  now 
rightly  recollect  my  emotions,  surprise  was  the  least 
active  among  them.  I  cared  not  why  or  whence 
the  apparition  came  —  I  thought  not  whether  it  were 
reality  or  a  mocking  resemblance — the  phantasy  of 
my  own  brain,  or  the  shadowy  creation  of  some 
supernatural  power  around  me.  I  knew  only  that  it 
was  there — I  knew  only  that  the  eyes  in  whose 
perilous  light  my  soul  had  bathed  herself  to  madness, 
beamed  anew  before  me — that  the  lips  whose  lightest 
smile  had  often  rapt  me  in  elysium — that  the  brow 

whose    holy    light But    why    should    I    thus 

attempt  to  paint  what  pencil  never  yet  hath  reached — 
why  essay  a  portrait  whose  colors  I  have  no  where 
found,  save  in  the  heart  where  they  are  laid  so  deeply 
that  death  alone  can  dim  them.  Enough  that  the 


THE  ENCHANTED   MOUNTAINS.  271 

only  human  being  to  which  my  spirit  ever  bowed  in 
inferiority — enough  that  the  idol  to  which  it  had 
knelt  in  adoration,  now  stood  palpably  before  it.  An 
hour  agone,  and  I  would  have  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  grave  itself  to  stand  one  moment  in  that 
presence — to  gaze,  if  but  for  an  instant,  upon  those 
features.  What  recked  I  now,  then,  how  or  whence 
they  were  conjured  up?  Had  the  Fiend  himself  stood 
nigh,  I  should  have  pressed  nearer,  and  gazed,  and 
followed  as  I  did.  The  figure  beckoned,  and  I 
went  on. 

The  vaulted  pathway  was  at  first  smooth  and 
easily  followed,  but  after  passing  through  several  of 
the  cavernous  chambers  into  which  it  ever  and  anon 
expanded,  the  route  became  more  and  more  difficult ; 
loose  masses  of  rock  encumbering  the  floor,  or 
drooping  in  pendant  crags  from  the  roof,  rendered 
the  defiles  between  them  both  toilsome  and  hazardous. 
The  light  which  fell  through  the  opening  behind  us 
soon  disappeared  entirely,  and  it  gave  me  a  singular 
sinking  of  the  spirits  as  we  passed  into  deeper  and 
deeper  gloom,  to  hear  the  musical  sounds  which  I 
have  already  noted  in  the  grotto  from  which  we  first 
passed,  dying  away  in  the  distance,  and  leaving  the 
place  at  last  to  total  silence.  Long,  indeed,  after  they 
had  ceased  to  reach  my  ear  with  any  distinctness, 
they  would  seem  at  times  to  swell  along  the  winding 
vault,  and  break  anew  upon  me  at  some  turn  in 
our  devious  route.  So  strangely,  too,  do  the  innume- 
rable subtle  echoes  metamorphose  each  sound  in  such 
a  place,  that  continually  did  I  find  myself  mistaking 


272  THE  ENCHANTED   MOUNTAINS. 

the  muttered  reverberations  for  the  sounds  of  a  human 
voice.  At  one  moment  it  seemed  in  gay  tones  to  be 
calling  me  back  to  the  sparry  grotto  and  bright 
sunshine  behind  me,  while  the  very  next  it  appeared 
with  sudden  and  harsh  intonation  to  warn  me  against 
proceeding  further — anon  then  it  would  die  away 
with  a  mournful  cadence,  a  melancholy  wailing, 
like  the  requiem  of  one  who  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
all  earthly  counsel  or  assistance.  Again  and  again 
did  I  pause  in  my  career  to  listen  to  this  wild 
chanting,  while  my  feelings  would,  for  the  moment, 
take  their  hue  and  complexion  from  the  sources 
which  thus  bewildered  my  senses.  I  thought  of  my 
early  dreams  of  fame  and  honor — of  the  singing 
hopes  that  lured  me  on  my  path,  when  one  fatal 
image  stepped  between  my  soul  and  all  its  high 
endeavor — I  thought  of  that  buoyancy  of  spirit,  once 
so  irrepressible  in  its  elasticity,  that  it  seemed  proof 
alike  against  time  and  sorrow,  now  sapped,  wasted, 
and  destroyed,  by  the  frenzied  pursuit  of  one  object — 
I  thought  of  the  home  which  had  so  much  to  embel- 
lish and  endear  it,  and  which  yet,  with  all  its  heart- 
cheering  joys,  had  been  neglected  and  left,  like  the 
sunlit  grotto,  to  follow  a  shifting  phantom  through  a 
heartless  world — I  thought  of  the  reproachful  voices 
around  me,  and  the  ceaseless  upbraider  in  my  own 
bosom,  which  told  of  time  and  talents  wasted — of 
opportunities  thrown  away — of  mental  energies 
squandered — of  heart,  brain,  and  soul,  consumed  in  a 
devotion  deeper  and  more  absorbing  than  Heaven 
itself  exacts  from  its  votaries — I  thought — and  I 


THE   ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS.  273 

looked  at  the  object  for  which  I  had  lavished  them 
all — I  thought  that  my  life  must  have  been  some 
hideous  dream — some  damned  vision  in  which  my 
fated  soul  was  bound  by  imaginary  ties  to  a  being 
doomed  to  be  its  bane  upon  earth,  and  shut  it  out  at 
last  from  heaven.  And  I  laughed  in  scornful  glee  as 
I  twisted  my  bodily  frame  in  the  hope  that  at  length  I 
might  wake  from  that  long-enduring  sleep.  I  caught 
a  smile  from  the  lips — I  saw  a  beckon  from  the  hand 
of  the  phantom,  and  I  wished  again  to  dream  and  to 
follow  for  ever — I  plunged  into  the  abyss  of  darkness 
to  which  it  pointed,  and  reckless  of  every  thing  I 
might  leave  behind,  followed  wheresoever  it  might 
marshal  me. 

A  damp  and  chilling  atmosphere  now  pervaded  the 
place,  and  the  clammy  moisture  stood  thick  upon  my 
brow  as  I  groped  my  way  through  a  labyrinth  of 
winding  galleries  which  intersected  each  other  so 
often,  both  obliquely  and  transversely,  that  the  whole 
mountain  seemed  honey-combed.  At  one  moment 
the  steep  and  broken  pathway  led  up  acclivities 
almost  impossible  to  scale;  at  another,  the  black  edge 
of  a  precipice  indicated  our  hazardous  route  along 
the  brink  of  some  unfathomed  gulf;  while  again  a 
savage  torrent,  roaring  through  the  sinuous  vault, 
left  scarcely  room  enough  for  a  foothold  between  the 
base  of  the  wall  and  its  furious  tide.  And  still  my 
guide  kept  on,  and  still  I  followed.  Returning, 
indeed,  had  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  were  now 
impossible ;  for  the  pale  light  which  seemed  to  hang 
around  her  person,  emanating,  as  it  were,  from  her 


274  THE  ENCHANTED   MOUNTAINS. 

white  raiment,  was  all  that  guided  me  through  these 
shadowy  realms.  But  not  for  a  moment  now  did  I 
think  of  retracing  my  steps,  or  pausing  in  that  wild 
pursuit — onward  and  still  onward  it  led,  while  my 
spirit,  once  set  upon  its  purpose,  seemed  to  gather 
sterner  determination  from  every  difficulty  it  encoun- 
tered, and  kindle  once  more  with  that  indomitable 
buoyancy  which  was  once  the  chief  attribute  of  my 
nature. 

At  length  the  chase  seemed  ended,  as  we  approached 
one  of  those  abrupt  and  startling  turns  common  in 
these  caverns,  where  the  passage,  suddenly  veering 
to  the  right  or  left,  leads  you,  as  if  by  design,  to  the 
sheer  edge  of  some  gulph  that  is  impassible.  My 
strange  companion  seemed  pausing  for  a  moment 
upon  the  brink  of  the  abyss.  It  was  a  moment  to  me 
of  delirious  joy,  mingled  with  more  than  mortal 
agony ;  the  object  of  my  wild  pursuit  seemed  at 
length  within  my  grasp — a  single  bound,  and  my 
outstretched  arms  would  have  encircled  her  person — 
a  single  bound,  nay,  the  least  movement  toward  her, 
might  only  have  precipitated  the  destruction  upon 
whose  brink  she  hovered.  Her  form  seemed  to 
flutter  upon  the  very  edge  of  that  horrid  precipice, 
as,  gazing  like  one  fascinated,  over  it,  she  stretched 
her  hand  backward  toward  me.  It  was  like  inviting 
me  to  perdition — and  yet,  forgive  me,  Heaven — to 
perish  with  her  was  my  proudest  hope,  as  I  sprang 
to  grasp  it.  But  oh!  God,  what  held  I  in  that 
withering  clasp  ?  The  ice  of  death  seemed  curdling 
in  my  veins  as  I  touched  those  clammy  and  pulseless 


THE    ENCHANTED    MOUNTAINS.  275 

fingers — a  strange  and  unhallowed  light  shot  upward 
from  the  black  abyss,  and  the  features  from  which  I 
could  not  take  my  eyes  away  were  changed  to  those 
of  a  demon  in  that  hideous  glare.  And  now  the  hand 
that  I  had  so  longed  to  clasp,  closed  with  remorseless 
pressure  round  my  own,  and  drew  me  toward  the 
yawning  gulf — it  tightened  in  its  grasp,  and  I 
hovered  still  nearer  to  my  horrid  doom — it  clenched 
yet  more  closely,  and  the  frenzied  shriek  I  gave 

AWOKE  me. 

A  soft  palm  was  gently  pressed  against  my 
own — a  pair  of  laughing  blue  eyes  were  bent 
archly  upon  me,  and  the  fair  locks  which  floated 
over  her  blooming  cheeks  revealed  the  joyous  and 
romping  damsel  who  had  promised  to  act  as  my 
guide  through  the  cavern.  She  had  been  prevented 
by  some  household  cares  from  keeping  her  appoint- 
ment until  the  approach  of  evening  made  it  too  late, 
and  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  I  had  then  returned 
to  my  lodgings  at  the  inn.  My  absence  from  the 
breakfast  table  in  the  morning,  however,  had  awakened 
some  concern  in  the  family,  and  induced  her  to  seek 
me  where  we  then  met.  The  pressure  of  her  hand  in 
trying  to  awaken  me,  will  partially  account  for  the 
latter  part  of  my  hideous  dream.  The  general  tenor 
of  it  is  easily  traceable  to  the  impression  made  upon 
my  mind  by  the  prevalent  superstition  connected  with 
the  cavern ;  but  no  metaphysical  ingenuity  of  which 
I  am  master,  can  explain  how  one  whose  life  has, 
with  the  exception  of  one  dark  shadow,  been  passed 
under  such  uniform  sunny  influences  as  mine,  could, 


276  THE   ENCHANTED  MOUNTAINS. 

even  in  a  dream,  have  conjured  up  such  a  train  of 
wild  and  bitter  fancies ;  much  less  how  the  fearful 
tissue  could  have  been  interwoven  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  one  whose  gentle  spirit,  when  on  earth,  could 
never  have  wounded  the  bosom  that  loved  her,  and 
whose  memory,  through  the  long,  long  years,  that 
have  elapsed  since  we  parted,  has  ever  been  associated 
in  my  mind  with  all  that  was  true  and  tender, 
generous,  noble,  and  confiding. 

If  half  be  true,  however,  that  is  told  concerning 
them,  still  more  extravagant  sallies  of  the  imagination 
overtake  persons  of  quite  as  easy  and  careless  a 
disposition  as  myself,  when  venturing  to  pass  a 
Night  upon  the  Enchanted  Mountains. 


THE   STARS. 


YE  stars  of  beauty  —  everlasting  —  bright !  — 

Gems  of  creation  — jewels  of  the  night !  — 

Ye  smile  in  glory  with  unclouded  power, 

As  first  ye  smiled  in  nature's  primal  hour ; 

No  chance  or  change  hath  ever  touched  your  sphere; 

Deathless  ye  stand,  while  all  things  perish  here. 

Ye  orbs  immortal,  how  I  pant  to  see 

The  happy  ones,  that  ever  dwelt  with  ye  — 

Could  I  companion  them !  —  But  ah !  how  vain 

The  thought,  which  burns  my  ever-aching  brain  1 

This  is  my  dwelling  place !  —  From  this  I  see 

Your  sheen,  that  silvers  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea ! 

And,  as  I  see,  in  sadness  I  adore  — 

Ye  stars  of  beauty  shine  for  evermore. 

As  you  to  us,  so  we  may  be 
To  you  an  ever-twinkling  gem  — 
To  those  'yond  your  infinity 
You  may  but  seem  the  like  to  them ! 
Oh !  who  can  say  where  this  shall  end  — 
Who  may  the  mystery  comprehend  ? 
That  which  to  HIM  is  but  a  span 
Outreaches  every  thought  of  man ! 
Man  —  but  an  atom !  —  yea  the  earth  — 
On  which  he  stands  with  haughty  crest  — 
M 


278  THE   STARS. 

A  wandering  speck  of  pigmy  birth, 
Compared  with  all  the  endless  rest !  — 
The  million  millions  who  have  been, 
Since  time's  unreckoned  race  began  — 
The  trophies  of  their  pride  or  spleen  — 
The  mortals  —  and  the  works  of  man  — 
Where  are  they  ?  —  Let  their  relics  say  — 
Their  shattered  stones  —  their  charnel  clay ! 
The  times,  perchance,  to  us  which  seem 
A  fable,  or  fantastic  dream, 
Outflourished  ours  in  art  —  in  mind  — 
In  all  that  dignifies  our  kind ; 
And  looked  to  a  forgotten  past 
As  we  on  them  conjecture  cast 
Upon  the  Egyptian's  burning  sand 
The  pyramids  still  proudly  stand  — 
So  stood  they  in  their  glory.  —  When  ?  — 
The  tombs  of  oxen  or  of  men  ? 
The  jests  of  fame  —  the  "  fiend's  arch-mock  "  - 
Conjecture's  beacon,  and  her  rock !  — 
The  thought-defiers !  —  since  whose  date 
All  else  hath  shared  the  builder's  fate ; 
While  they,  in  might  of  monumental  stone  — 
Records  of  others  —  are  themselves  unknown ; 
And  stand  alone,  to  shadow  forth  our  lot  — 
To  be  —  to  perish  —  and  to  be  forgot! — 
But  ye,  bright  beacons  of  a  better  shore, 
Shall  live  in  light,  till  time  shall  lose  his  power, 
While  mortals,  as  they  feel  their  spirits  soar, 
Shall  bend  and  bless  ye  —  "  Shine  for  evermore !  "- 

L. 


THE    FATE    OF   POMPEY, 


BY  THJS  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  BROTHERS.' 


The  desolator  desolate, 

The  victor  overthrown, 
The  arbiter  of  others'  fate, 

A  suppliant  for  his  own. 

BYRON. 

Magnus  mirandusque  clicns  sedet  ad  praeloria  regis, 
Donee  Bithyno  libeat  vigilare  tyranno. 

JUVENAL,  xth  Sat 


FOR  the  first  time  had  the  plains  of  Thessaly  rung 
to  the  war  cries  of  two  Roman  armies,  mingled  in 
civil  strife; — for  the  first  time,  had  they  reeked  to 
heaven  with  the  unnatural  evidence  of  kindred 
slaughter — destined  as  they  were  again  to  witness 
similar  abominations,  again  to  minister  unto  the  fall 
of  liberty.  Carnage,  unexampled  since  the  days  of 
the  one-eyed  Carthaginian,  since  the  ambuscades  of 
Thrasymene,  or  the  pitched  field  of  Cannae,  had 
fallen  on  the  masters  of  the  world.  From  this  day 
forth,  the  annals  of  the  eagle-queen  were  to  be  stamped 
with  different  records ;  from  this  day  forth,  were  the 
nations  to  be  let  loose  against  her;  and  deadlier 
yet,  the  hands,  which  had  subdued  the  universe,  were 


280  THE  FATE  OF   POMPEY. 

to  be  turned  against  her  vitals ;  from  this  day  forth  was 
the  thirsty  earth,  at  short  and  oft  repeated  intervals, 
to  drink  the  blood  of  Rome  in  fearful  retribution. 

The  bodies  of  fifteen  thousand  citizens — the 
veterans  of  twenty  battles,  the  sons  of  war  nursed 
in  the  very  lap  of  victory,  cumbered  the  marshes  of 
Pharsalia;  while  twice  the  number  bowed  in  despe- 
rate submission  before  the  footstool  of  a  native 
conqueror.  Nor  was  it  on  mercenaries  alone,  on 
Gaulish  horsemen  or  the  infantry  of  Spain,  or  even 
on  the  private  legionaries,  that  the  havoc  had  fallen 
with  the  most  unsparing  hand.  Two  hundred 
senators  lay  there,  praetorians,  consulars,  stiff  in  their 
curdled  blood, — men,  who  had  braved  the  chilling 
cold  of  the  transalpine  winter  unsubdued  and  fearless, 
who  had  marched  undaunted  through  the  scorching 
desarts  of  Numidia,  who  had  breathed  unenervated 
the  luxurious  atmosphere  of  Syria  —  men,  who  had 
rendered  the  name  of  Rome  supreme  to  the  farthest 
limits  of  the  habitable  world — lay  there  unnaturally 
stricken  down  and  in  a  private  quarrel.  And  He,  the 
conqueror  of  Mithridates,  the  spoiler  of  the  east,  the 
destroyer  of  the  pirates,  the  desolater  of  Jerusalem — 
He  who,  while  yet  a  boy,  had  been  surnamed  the 
GREAT,  by  one  yet  loftier  than  himself  in  that  vain 
eminence  which  men  call  greatness — He  who  for 
thirty  years  had  striven,  now  in  the  field,  now  in  the 
forum,  at  one  time  with  his  country,  at  another 
with  his  country's  foes,  but  still  in  one  unvarying 
career  of  victory,  in  one  eternal  tide  of  fortune  — 
Pompey  had  fallen. 


THE   FATE   OF   POMPEY.  2B1 

While  there  was  yet  a  hope,  he  had  battled  like  a 
soldier — like  a  man.  Till  he  heard  the  fatal  man- 
date—  "Faciem  feri,  miles" — thundered  from  the 
lips  of  the  great  captain,  and  saw  it  fearfully  backed 
by  the  headlong1  valor  of  his  legionaries — till  he  saw 
his  chosen  cavalry,  the  pride  of  the  equestrian  order, 
the  flower  of  Rome's  young  chivalry,  swept  away 
like  chaff  before  the  onset  of  the  Gallic  veterans  — 
till  then  he  had  striven,  he  had  hoped. 

Night  fell,  and  he  was  hopeless.  Alone  he  had 
mounted  his  horse,  and  gallopped,  from  the  theatre  of 
his  disgrace,  he  scarce  knew  whither.  —  The  moon 
rose  brightly  as  he  quitted  the  postern  gate  of  his 
encampment ;  the  deep  shout  of  the  legions,  and  the  din 
of  arms,  as  they  scaled  the  feebly  guarded  rampart, 
ringing  in  his  ears,  and  goading  his  soul  to  madness. 
A  score  of  horsemen  joined  him  on  his  route,  weary, 
like  himself,  and  many  wounded ;  ere  midnight,  he 
had  reached  Larissa,  but  he  knew  too  well  the  course 
of  Roman  clemency  to  loiter,  even  without  the  gates. 
The  moon  set  as  he  entered  the  wildest  defiles  of  the 
range  of  Ossa,  yet  he  tarried  not ;  the  morning  found 
him  painfully  journeying  down  the  windings  of  the 
silver  Peneus,  through  the  laurel  thickets,  and  beneath 
the  limestone  crags  of  Tempe ;  night — the  second 
since  he  was  a  leader,  already  in  his  confidence 
victorious — saw  him  outstretched  upon  the  wretched 
pallet  of  a  fisher's  hut,  tossing  in  his  fevered  slumbers, 
while  his  few  attendants  fitted  with  hasty  zeal  the 
fragile  shallop  that  was  to  bear  him  on  the  morrow 
beyond  the  mercies  of  the  conqueror. 


282  THE  FATE   OF  POMPEY. 

The  sun  went  up  from  the  waters,  but  no  human 
eye  beheld  him,  for  the  northwest  wind  had  driven 
the  vapors  far  to  seaward,  and  the  heavens  were 
shrouded  to  the  zenith  with  dark  and  threatening 
clouds  ;  the  waves  of  the  Thermaic  gulf  were  already 
capped  with  white,  and  the  distant  sails,  that  might  be 
seen  on  the  horizon,  were  skimming  their  broken 
ridges  with  unusual  velocity ;  the  very  sea  fowl,  con- 
scious of  the  coming  storm,  were  beating  up  against 
the  wind,  with  hoarse  and  plaintive  clamors,  as  they 
sought  the  security  of  the  shore.  But  to  Pompey 
and  his  fugitive  companions  the  wildest  tempest,  that 
was  ever  brewed  in  the  stormy  west,  would  have  been 
preferred  to  the  wonted  calms,  the  glassy  surface,  and 
the  slight  breezes  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  wind 
though  boisterous  was  fair — the  sea,  though  to  lands- 
men it  might  have  seemed  perilous,  had  no  terrors  to 
the  exile  who  "  blest  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it 
gave."  —  The  boat  was  hauled  down  to  the  beach,  a 
moment  saw  it  launched  into  the  boiling  surf;  the 
mast  was  shipped ;  the  long  yard  hoisted ;  and,  ere 
the  canvas  was  fairly  spread  to  the  influence  of  the  gale, 
she  was  already  dancing  over  the  billows  at  a  rate 
that  barely  seemed  sufficient  to  the  fears  or  wishes  of 
her  crew. 

A  week  had  not  elapsed  from  his  departure,  ere  he 
had  collected  a  few  scattered  galleys  of  his  yet  powerful 
fleet,  had  armed  a  petty  force  of  scarce  two  thousand 
men, — all  that  now  adhered  to  the  fortunes  of  him, 
who  had  so  lately  boasted,  that  by  the  mere  stamping 
of  his  foot  upon  the  earth  he  could  create  an  army, — 


THE   PATE   OP  POMPBY.  283 

above  all  he  had  taken  on  board,  at  Mitylene,  his 
heroic  wife  Cornelia,  with  Sextus,  the  youngest  of 
those  brave  boys,  who  were,  in  after  days,  destined  to 
perish,  like  their  sire,  in  the  vain  hope  of  victory  and 
vengeance. 

The  mind  of  the  bold  Roman  had  been  shaken,  it 
is  true,  by  his  late  disasters,  but  it  was  unsubdued. — 
No  thought  of  base  submission,  no  thought  of  with- 
drawal from  the  contest,  or  relinquishment  of  his 
ambitious  views,  had  crossed  his  daring  spirit.  His 
army  was,  indeed,  broken — his  party  scattered  to  the 
four  winds  of  heaven,  while  the  power  of  his  rival 
was  not  only  increased  by  victory,  and  by  the  confi- 
dence arising  thence,  but  was  actually  reinforced  by 
the  desertion  of  his  own  dispirited  and  faithless 
legions.  Still  there  was  hope  for  Pompey.  While 
Rome  should  stand,  and  Cato  breathe — while  twenty 
patriots,  who  preferred  a  patriotic  death  for  liberty 
to  the  base  trappings  of  a  delegated  sway,  should 
tread  the  earth,  he  knew  that  Caesar  could  not  be 
firmly  seated  on  the  throne,  which  was  evidently  the 
ulterior  object  of  his  undoubted  though  covert  policy. 
For  a  few  days,  for  a  few  bitter  days,  he  had  been 
plunged  in  deep  abstraction — the  abstraction  not  of 
doubt  nor  of  despondency,  but  of  anxious  debate,  and 
high  consideration.  But  that  debate  was  ended — 
consideration  had  yielded  to  resolve — and  the  war- 
rior's front  was  calm,  and  his  eye  brilliant,  as  though 
he  had  never  known  defeat  or  sorrow. 

On  the  tenth  morning  after  his  disastrous  conflict, 
while  the  stars  were  yet  winking  in  the  gray  sky,  the 


231  THE  FATE   OF   POMPEY. 

galley  of  the  fated  chieftain  dropped  its  anchor  in  the 
deep  bight  formed  by  the  Pelusiac,  or  eastern,  estuary 
of  the  Nile.  The  low  and  swampy  shores  were 
veiled  from  sight  by  a  thick  bank  of  fog,  above  which 
a  few  solitary  palm  trees  reared  their  lofty  stems  and 
feathery  foliage  against  the  transparent  atmosphere  of 
the  upper  regions. — Three  other  triremes,  the  whole 
of  Pompey's  armament,  might  be  seen  to  wind- 
ward, looming  up  one  by  one  from  the  horizon, 
till  they  too  stood  into  the  little  bay,  and  came  to  their 
moorings  a  little  way  to  seaward  of  the  leader's  vessel. 
On  the  deck  of  that  low  vessel,  —  a  war-galley  of  the 
commonest  construction,  bearing  no  marks  of  its 
commander's  dignity,  save  in  the  gilded  coronals 
circling  its  elevated  prow,  and  the  vexillum,  or  square 
banner,  that  fluttered  from  the  turret  on  the  stern — 
on  the  deck  of  that  low  vessel  was  collected  a  small 
group,  anxiously  gazing  forth  upon  the  shores,  eager 
to  pierce  the  misty  wreaths  that  obscured  their  view 
of  those  shores,  whereon  they  hoped  to  reinstate 
themselves  in  all  their  former  glory. 

The  principal  personage  of  that  group  was  a  figure 
that  well  might  realize  the  noblest  conception,  that  can 
be  formed,  of  perhaps  the  noblest  specimen  of  the 
human  race — an  ancient  Roman.  Tall  and  superbly 
formed,  with  a  natural  dignity  of  motion  and  of 
manner  that  would  have  seemed  the  result  of  study, 
had  it  not  been  that  study  must  have  failed  in  the 
production  of  any  thing  so  perfect — firm  yet  courteous, 
graceful  yet  unbending,  possessing  all  the  grandeur 
of  the  Stoic  with  all  the  gentleness  of  the  Epicurean, 


THE   FATE   OF   POMPEY.  295 

Pompey  the  Great,  in  action  or  repose  was  still  the 
"  man  perfect,  and  chaste,  and  grave,"  of  his  renowned 
admirer,  the  immortal  Cicero.  —  Splendidly  clad  in  the 
rich  armor  of  a  Roman  officer  —  the  brilliant  corslet 
glancing  from  beneath  the  fringed  and  studded  cassoc, 
which  he  bore  above  it,  and  the  triple-crested  casque 
of  polished  brass,  rich  with  the  sculptures  of  the 
Grecian  chisel,  setting  off  his  intellectual  head,  and 
features  stern  almost  to  severity  —  the  conqueror  of 
Mithridates  stood  on  the  prow — now  his  sole  space 
of  empire — pointing,  with  one  extended  arm,  to  the 
camp  and  royal  ensigns  that  were  by  degrees  becom- 
ing visible  on  the  Egyptian  beach ;  while  with  the 
other  he  encircled  the  waist  of  her,  who  clung  not  to 
him  in  the  frail  dependency  of  modern  females,  but 
bore  herself  erect,  though  pale  and  tearful,  as  became 
a  Roman  matron,  a  daughter  of  the  proudest  race  in 
that  proud  clime — the  hundred-heroed  clan  of  the 
Cornelii. 

"  Cneius"  —  she  said,  in  tones  that  faltered  not, 
though  they  were  low,  and  mournful  in  their  sweet- 
ness—  "Yours  is  it  to  command,  mine  to  obey — and 
to  complain  or  murmur  becomes  not  the  daughter  of 
the  Scipio.  —  Yet  hear  me,  ere  you  go — hear  me,  my 
Cneius,  ere  you  go — never — I  know  it — never  to 
return"  — 

"  Now,  may  the  Gods  avert  it"  —  cried  the  youthful 
Scxtus,  who  listened  to  their  words  at  a  respectful 
distance — "avert  it,  and  grant  better  things!" 

"Away" — she  burst  forth  into  high  and  spirited 
eloquence  —  "away  with  deprecation,  and  with  omens, 


286  THE   PATE   OP   POMPEY. 

and  with  all  the  senseless  mummery  of  augurs — 
'  whom  the  Gods  purpose  to  destroy,  they  first  deprive 
of  reason!'  —  Pyrrhus  believed  in  augury,  and 
fell — Philip  made  use  of  it,  and  conquered!  — 
Away  with  augury  and  omens — they  are  the  terror 
and  the  ruin  of  the  fool — the  mockery  and  the 
weapons  of  the  wise  ! 

"But  I — I  read  no  omen  save  of  the  human  heart  — 
I  use  no  prophecy  save  that  of  human  foresight  — 
and  I  say  to  thee,  trust  not  to  the  Egyptian — trust 
not — or  thou  shalt  perish!  —  The -noble  Cato,  and 
my  own  brave  boy,  Afranius,  Labienus,  are  in  arms — 
in  arms  for  Borne  and  Pompey !  Cicero,  too,  is  with 
them —  Cicero  who  has  smiled  serenely  upon  storms  of 
the  republic,  to  which  this  slight  reverse  is  but  a 
passing  breeze —  Cicero — himself  a  host.  And  will 
you  leave  all  these — the  brave — the  eloquent  —  the 
true — will  you  desert  your  friends,  your  followers, 
your  own  blood,  Cneius,  will  you  desert  the  arms 
of  Rome  to  herd  among  barbarians !"  — 

"Not  so,  Cornelia"  —  he  replied,  with  a  calm  and 
chastened  smile —  "  Not  so  !  — thy  fears  deceive  thee, 
and  thou  knowest  not  what  thou  sayest.  I  leave  not 
any — least  of  all  the  dear  and  gallant  ones  of  whom 
thou  speakest  —  I  desert  not  any  —  nor  herd  I  with 
barbarians.  The  sun,  which  set  last  night  amid  the 
blackness  of  the  storm-cloud,  is  rising  now  in  glory. — 
Virtue —  Roman  virtue — may  be  hidden  for  a  while 
by  calumny,  or  spite  of  fortune  —  but  it  must  rise  the 
brighter  and  the  higher  from  its  brief  concealment. 
I  go  not,  noble  woman,  I  go  not  to  lie  in  coward 


THE  FATE  OF  POMPEY.  287 

indolence,  but  to  strive  in  noble  action.  With  an 
Egyptian  army  will  I  reinforce  the  patriot  bands  of 
Cato,  with  an  Egyptian  army  will  I  see  Rome  in 
liberty  and  glory!"  — 

"  Be  it  so"  —  was  the  melancholy  answer  of  the 
wife  and  mother,  silenced,  but  not  convinced  —  "  be  it 
so !  and  Jove,  the  greatest  and  the  best,  preserve 
thee !"  — 

As  she  spoke,  a  clang  of  martial  music  was  wafted 
to  them  on  the  light  land  wind  which  was  rising  with 
the  sun  —  the  barbarous  horn,  the  clashing  cymbal, 
the  deep  roll  of  the  beaten  tympanum,  and  the  jingle 
of  the  wild  Egyptian  systrum.  The  morning  mists 
rolled  peacefully  away  before  the  enlivening  influence 
of  the  breeze,  and,  scattering  as  they  rose,  flecked  the 
blue  canopy  with  a  thousand  fleecy  islets  of  snow- 
white  vapor.  The  bosom  of  the  levantine  sea  was 
scarcely  ruffled  by  the  balmy  wind,  not  breaking,  but 
sparkling  with  its  cones  of  diamond  spray.  The 
sea-gulls  were  abroad  in  hundreds,  now  fanning  their 
broad  wings  aloft  as  they  poised  themselves  for  their 
meditated  swoop,  now  darting  from  their  height  with 
a  rapidity  that  mocked  the  eye,  plunging  with  a  lead- 
like  dash  into  the  tiny  waves,  and  bearing  their  finny 
prey  far,  far  aloof,  into  the  blue  distance,  ere  the 
circling  ripples  on  the  surface,  disturbed  by  their 
invasion,  had  vanished  from  the  waters. 

On  the  silvery  sands — at  scarcely  a  mile's  distance 
from  the  galley — the  host  of  Ptolemy  was  seen 
moving  downward  to  the  verge  in  a  huge  semicircle, 
flashing  with  gilded  arms,  and  scarlet  turbans,  and 


288  THE  FATE  OF  POMPEY.  • 

embroidered  garments,  and  all  the  blazoned  gorgeous- 
ness  of  oriental  warfare.  Banners  in  multitudes,  that 
almost  equalled  the  number  of  the  glittering  spear- 
points  marshalled  beneath  them,  waved  in  the  wind, 
surmounted  by  the  uncouth  Gods  of  that  benighted 
people —  serpents  of  gold  and  azure — the  ibis,  and  the 
loathsome  crocodile,  the  ape,  the  scarab,  and  the  mute 
and  senseless  fish, — had  all  their  jewelled  images, 
all  their  devoted  worshippers.  A  cloud  of  Numidian 
cavalry  thronged  the  spacious  plains  around  the 
marshalled  host — now  on  the  flanks,  now  on  the 
rear,  and  now  in  front,  wheeling  their  literally 
unbridled  horses,  in  mad  evolutions,  by  voice  and 
gesture  only,  tossing  their  spears  aloft,  or  shooting 
their  arrows,  and  gathering  them  again  from  earth  in 
full  career. 

The  eye  of  the  warrior  flashed  with  an  expression 
it  had  not  worn,  since  the  flower  of  Rome  fled  before 
the  veterans  of  Caesar. 

"  It  is  a  host"  — he  almost  shouted — "a  host  with 
which  a  Roman  might  subdue  an  universe!"  — 

"Aye" — murmured  Cornelia,  at  his  elbow — 
"  aye !  were  it  but  a  host  of  Romans  /" 

"  Tush,"  he  replied,  smiling  again  more  joyously 
than  before  —  "  Thou  silly  trembler !  —  To  that  barba- 
rous body  will  we  affix  a  Latin  head ;  with  Cato's 
good  ten  thousand,  and  these  dark-visaged  myriads  of 
the  Ptolemies,  we  will  right  speedily  efface  the  black 
spot  of  Pharsalia."  — But,  as  he  spoke,  the  memory  of 
that  dark  day,  and  of  the  brave  there  festering  in 


THE  FATE   OF   POMPEY.  280 

their  blood,  overcame  him ;  he  broke  off  abruptly, 
and  was  silent ! 

"  See !  see"  —  cried  the  boy  Sextus,  springing 
forward  in  youthful  vivacity,  "see,  they  send  forth  a 
skiff" 

And  in  good  truth  a  barge  was  seen  skimming  the 
waters,  under  the  united  exertions  of  six  brawny 
rowers,  but  it  was  scarcely  such  an  one,  or  manned  by 
such  a  crew,  as  one  high  potentate  would  send  to  bear 
his  greetings  to  an  equal.  A  long  low  skiff  of  rough 
unpolished  planks,  well  modelled  enough,  and  built 
for  speed,  but  neither  carved  nor  painted,  much  less 
adorned  with  the  rich  mouldings  of  gold  and  ivory, 
which,  in  those  sumptuous  days,  were  deemed  appro- 
priate and  almost  indispensable  appendages  to  the 
pleasure  boats  of  even  private  citizens! 

"A  common  fisher's  skiff!"  —  Cornelia  returned 
with  a  deep  expression  of  scorn,  but  without  farther 
comment.  — 

"And  there"  —  cried  Sextus,  perceiving  that  it 
was  an  intentional  indignity — "and  there  upon  the 
beach  stand  the  royal  yachts,  with  their  gay  tackle, 
motionless !  —  Receive  them  not,  my  father  —  let  me 
call  Fabius  and  Marullus  hither,  with  their  pikes,  to 
drive  down  the  barbarians  from  our  channels.  Would 
that  I  had  my  Parthian  quiver  here,  and  that  good  bow, 
the  gift  of  Crassus !  —  By  Hercules,  yon  swart-faced 
ape,  that  sits  there  in  the  stern,  should  rue  his  inso- 
lence!"— 

"  Peace  —  Sextus !    'tis  the  brave    Achillas,    the 


290  THE  FATE   OF  POMPEV. 

leader  of  the  army ;  and  there  beside  him,  with  the 
emerald  tiara,  sits  Photinus,  the  curator  of  the  royal 
treasury ;  and  there,  Theodotus  of  Samos,  the  youth- 
ful king's  preceptor  — but  in  strange  trim  they  come, 
by  Hercules !"  — 

"All  Hail  —  Pompeius"  —  cried  the  dark  Copt, 
who  had  been  called  Achillas  — "  All  Hail  THB 
GREAT  !" 

"Health  to  Achillas"  —  was  the  dignified  reply  — 
"and  to  thee,  too,  Photinus — welcome  Theodotus  1"  — 

"  Thy  slaves,  Great  Pompey,  bear  thee  the  greet- 
ings of  their  king  —  Ptolemy  is  most  eager  to  behold 
his  friend  and  benefactor !  If  it  seem  good  to  Pom- 
pey, we  will  conduct  him  to  the  king's  encamp- 
ment !"  — 

"  Go  not,  my  noble  husband !  —  Go  not,  oh  go  not, 
if  thou  hast  any  love  for  thy  Cornelia !  —  If  thou 
wouldst  live,  go  not !  —  If  thou  wouldst  see  the  Capitol 
again,  and  enter  it  in  glory —  go  not  with  these  men, 
Cneius  Pompey."  — 

For  a  moment,  the  philosopher  was  moved,  the 
hero  bent.  —  He  turned  his  eyes  admiringly,  with  a 
tender  and  somewhat  melancholy  gaze,  upon  the  noble 
features  of  the  Roman  matron ;  caressingly  he  laid 
his  hands  upon  her  jetty  locks,  braided  in  simple 
plaits  around  the  magnificent  contour  of  her  brow, 
then  drawing  her  close  to  his  broad  bosom,  he  printed 
a  calm  and  passionless  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Thou  wert  ever  a  most  sweet  suppliant,  my  own 
Cornelia"  —  he  said  —  "  and  it  much  irketh  Pompey 
in  aught  to  say  thee  nay !  —  But  before  love  stands 


THE   FATE   OF   POMPEY.  291 

glory,  and  before  glory,  ROME.  Rome  calls  me,  and 
shall  I  —  for  thirty  years  her  soldier — for  thirty  years 
her  minister  of  greatness  —  shall  I  neglect  her  sum- 
mons !"  — 

"  Oh,  say  not  so"  —  she  again  pleaded,  and  a 
tear-drop,  worth  the  richest  empire  of  the  east,  stood 
in  her  dark  Italian  eye  — "  oh  say  not  so,  my 
husband,  my  lord,  my  life !  —  All  tells  of  treachery 
around  us  —  all  here  can  see,  can  hear,  can  feel  it  in 
their  very  souls.  —  Marullus,  Fabius,  speak  —  say 
out  the  thoughts  which — ye  may  not  deny  it — lurk  in 
your  secret  bosoms.  Had  Pompey  in  his  glory  sent 
an  embassy  to  Ptolemy,  would  it  have  been  an 
eunuch,  a  mercenary,  and  a  wily  Greek,  and  in  a 
squalid  cock-boat?"  —  she  raised  her  voice  as  she 
spoke,  and  the  notes,  high  and  clear  as  the  wailing  of 
a  distant  bugle,  shot  with  an  ominous  chill,  that  for 
many  a  year  was  unforgotten  by  its  hearers,  into 
every  breast  around  her.  — 

"  Cornelia"  —  replied  Achillas,  who  had  heard  her 
last  words  —  "  Cornelia  doubts  the  faith  of  Ptolemy ! 
Be  it  so !  -  we  can  return  to  him  who  sent  us  —  yet 
by  the  triple-formed  Osiris,  had  he  meant  ill  to 
Pompey,  force  had  been  more  easy  of  accomplish- 
ment than  fraud.  Nor  could  three  Roman  galleys, 
though  manned  by  Romans,  and  led  on  by  glorious 
Pompey,  have  beat  off  five  hundred  of  our  Egyptian 
brigantines !"  — 

11  Boastful  and  insolent"  —  cried  the  excited  wife, 
losing  all  command  of  her  feelings,  all  thoughts  even 
of  common  prudence,  in  her  unselfish  fears —  "Boast- 


292  THE   FATE   OF  POMPEY. 

fill  and  insolent  —  darest  thou,  a  swart  barbarian, 
defy  the  might  and  majesty  of  Rome !"  — 

"  Peace,  and  farewell,  Cornelia"  —  interrupted 
Pompey,  breaking  away  from  her  embrace  —  "thy 
terrors  have  impaired  thy  reason,  else  wouldst  thou 
better  know  to  welcome  our  friends.  —  Farewell, 
beloved  one,  ere  sunset  I  return."  — 

"  In  glory"  — continued  the  dark  Achillas,  a  smile 
gleaming  unnaturally  over  his  Ethiopian  features  — 
"  In  glory  shalt  though  return,  and  in  pomp  far  better 
suited  to  thy  greatness.  —  Not  thus  had  we  come  even 
now,  but  that  the  waters  are  full  shallow,  and  the 
channels  intricate  for  larger  vessels !  And  speed  — 
so  thought  our  king  —  would  savor  more  of  friend- 
ship, than  cold  pomp  or  heartless  ceremony." 

Again  he  embraced  his  noble  wife,  kissed  the  large 
tears  from  her  full  black  eyes  —  "Farewell  —  my 
heart,  the  Gods  watch  over  thee.  —  Sextus,  remember 
— in  evil  fortune  or  in  good — remember  thou  art 
the  son  of  Pompey  —  whom  Sylla  styled,  THE 
GREAT!  Increase  in  virtue — .and  in  fortune  — 
]ove  and  support  thy  mother,  honor  and  imitate  the 
noble  Cato,  hate  Caesar,  and  above  all  things,  be  a 
Roman!"  — 

He  stepped  from  the  channels  of  the  galley  into  the 
boat,  and  with  a  countenance  as  serene  as  though  he 
were  departing  on  a  pleasure  voyage,  seated  himseli 
amidships,  between  the  rowers  and  the  group  of  guards 
who  filled  the  stern  of  the  long  narrow  skiff  The 
man  in  the  bow,  a  jet-black  Mauritanian,  with  a  white 
turban  and  close  vest  of  linen,  pushed  off  the  boat 


THE   FATE   OF  POMPEY.  293 

with  a  vigorous  thrust  of  his  pole,  and  sinking  into 
his  seat,  plied  his  oar  with  a  vigor  in  which  he  was 
well  seconded  by  all  his  comrades  —  a  dozen  strokes 
sufficed  to  wheel  the  skiff  round,  and  a  dozen  more 
had  given  her  an  impetus  which  whirled  her  away 
from  the  galley  like  a  swallow  skimming  the  surf. 

While  the  side  of  the  boat  was  turned  toward  his 
vessel,  the  ill-fated  warrior  gazed  steadily  upon  the 
features  of  his  wife,  and  of  the  few  so  nobly  faithful ; 
as  she  fell  off,  he  waved  one  mute  farewell,  then  folding 
his  arms  calmly  over  his  bosom,  he  collected  all  his 
energies,  prepared  for  either  fortune. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  —  for  the  breast  of  the 
fugitive  was  full  —  full  of  high  sorrows  and  high 
purposes  —  while  the  hearts  of  those  about  him  beat 
anxiously  and  fearfully  —  with  the  wild  fear  of  medi- 
tated guilt.  —  Suddenly,  in  obedience  to  a  gesture  of 
Achillas,  the  foremost  rower,  as  it  were  accidentally, 
deranged  the  motion  of  the  boat  by  an  awkward  use 
of  his  oar  —  she  rocked  violently;  but,  contrary  to  the 
wishes  of  the  traitor,  the  proud  Roman  sat  unmoved, 
and  apparently  unconscious  —  the  villain  bit  his  lip 
with  all  the  bitterness  of  disappointed  malice,  and 
uttered  a  subdued  imprecation.  The  sound  fell  upon 
Pompey's  ear,  though  not  its  purport,  and  raising  his 
eyes  he  gazed  eagerly  around  him.  An  eye  caught 
his  —  a  well-known  face  —  for  Pompey  possessed  that 
rarest  faculty  of  memory,  by  which  the  great  alone 
are  oft  distinguished.  He  turned  half  round  — 
11  Ha !  comrade"  —  he  said  smilingly,  and  rejoicing 
at  the  sight — "Ha!  fellow-soldier,  we  have  met 

25' 


2M  THE  FATE   OF   POMPEY. 

before  —  thou  didst  serve  with  me  in  Pontus  —  Thy 
hand,  veteran !"  —  and  he  stooped  forward  with  extend- 
ed arm  to  greet  him.  At  this  instant  Photinus  waved 
his  arm  aloft,  and  the  oarsman,  who  sat  immediately 
behind  the  hero,  unsheathed  his  long  two-edged 
acinaces.  — 

"  Strike,  in  the  name  of  Isis"  —  shouted  Achillas, 
and  the  blow  flashed  in  the  sunlight. 

At  the  word  the  noble  Roman  had  sprung  to  his 
feet,  and  grasped  the  handle  of  his  Spanish  blade  — 
but  it  was  too  late,  the  home-driven  thrust  found  the 
joint  between  the  corslet  and  his  studded  belt,  and 
entered  deep  into  his  unguarded  side !  He  felt  that 
he  was  slain,  and,  withdrawing  his  hand  from  the 
hilt  of  his  useless  weapon,  again  folded  his  arms 
across  his  heart  —  glared  from  face  to  face  in  stern 
and  fearless  indignation,  while  those  before  him 
shrank  from  the  terrible  expression  of  his  bright  eye, 
as  though  it  were  fraught  with  blighting  fire.  Again 
and  again  the  murderers  struck,  but  still  their  blows 
were  from  behind.  —  Slowly  he  was  falling  forward, 
when,  with  a  desperate  and  dying  effort,  he  drew 
himself  up,  and  hurled  himself  backward  —  the 
assassins  leaped  aside,  and  the  tall  body  fell  heavily 
on  its  back  across  the  benches  slippery  with  its  life- 
blood —  the  last  glance  of  the  glazing  eyes  was 
upward  to  the  free  heavens  —  the  last  thought  of  the 
parting  spirit  was  one  of  self-restraining  dignity. 

For  a  moment's  space  there  was  a  pause,  and  then 
a  cry  went  up,  a  fearful  cry  of  mingled  agony  and 
indignation!  —  In  it  were  blent  the  vengeful  shouts  of 


THE   FATE  OP   POMPEY.  286 

the  fierce  legionaries,  the  boyish  notes  of  Sextus,  and 
wilder,  shriller,  and  more  terrible  than  all,  the  ravings 
of  the  desperate  Cornelia.  It  ceased  —  and  silence 
fell,  as  with  a  palpable  and  heavy  weight,  over  the 
brilliant  scene  —  for  hope  was  at  an  end  —  rescue 
too  late  —  vengeance  impossible.  —  The  fatal  skifl 
shot  onward,  and  now  she  reached  the  strand  —  the 
murderers  leaped  forth  —  and  lo,  a  pike  was  reared 
in  the  glad  sunshine,  fearfully  burthened  with  a  human 
hand  —  another  with  a  gory  head !  —  A  naked  muti- 
lated corpse  was  cast  upon  the  glittering  sands  —  and 
with  a  shout  of  barbarous  applause,  and  a  yet  wilder 
burst  of  music,  the  hosts  of  Egypt  celebrated  their 
accursed  triumph. 

In  terror  and  despair  the  Roman  galleys  slipped 
their  cables — with  every  sail  set,  every  sheet  strained 
to  the  utmost,  they  rushed,  before  the  gale,  from  that 
inhospitable  coast,  bearing  away,  she  knew  not  and 
she  cared  not  whither,  her  to  whom  the  universe  had 
now  become  one  cheerless  sepulchre. 

Noon  glowed  upon  the  level  beach  and  breezeless 
waters,  and  not  a  vessel  was  to  be  seen  on  the  deep, 
not  a  human  being  on  the  shores.  The  Roman  fleet 
had  long  since  sunk  into  the  blue  haze  of  distance, 
and  the  hosts  of  Ptolemy,  their  aim  accomplish- 
ed, had  marched  in  slavish  exultation  to  the  walls 
of  Alexandria. — For  miles  along  the  margin  of  the 
surf  not  an  object  was  to  be  seen,  save  one  of  horror! — 
The  senseless  mangled  clay,  that  but  a  few  brief 
hours  before  had  been  a  hero! — the  form  which 
men  deemed  it  an  honor  to  obey,  and  women  to 


296  THE   FATE   OF   POMPEY. 

adore !  —  A  headless  —  soulless — nameless  mass — 
a  thing  viler  than  the  foul  vultures,  that  flapped  their 
wings  above  it. 

The  sun  sank  slowly  —  one  half  of  his  great  disc 
was  buried,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  sands  of  the  far 
desert — the  other  peered,  an  arc  of  living  flame, 
above  the  desolate  horizon.  In  the  remotest  distance 
the  three  great  pyramids  might  be  seen  faintly,  their 
blunt  cones  scarcely  distinguished  by  a  deeper  shade 
from  the  blue  sky,  and  their  eastern  faces  glimmering 
with  the  last  beams  of  the  departing  day-god. 

In  the  foreground  of  the  picture  was  a  figure — a 
worn,  emaciated,  and  half  naked  figure — bending  in 
speechless  veneration  over  an  humble  pyre. — Sea- 
weeds, and  sun-dried  rushes,  with  a  few  planks  and 
spars — the  wreck  perchance  of  some  war-galley 
that  once  rode  the  waves  in  fearless  glory — scantily 
furnished  forth  a  funeral  pile  for  the  world's  con- 
queror j  —  and  he  who  heaped  the  fuel,  and  composed 
the  miserable  limbs  —  he,  who  alone  did  homage  to 
the  ashes  of  the  Great — was  one,  o'er  whom  the  eye 
of  Pompey,  while  yet  it  saw,  would  have  glanced 
heedlessly,  if  not  in  scorn. 

Hear  it,  O  Earth —  the  demigod,  beneath  whose  feet 
thy  thousand  nations  trembled,  perished  an  exile  at  the 
bidding  of  an  eunuch,  and  found  a  tomb — happy  to 
find  one  thus — at  the  precarious  mercy  of  a  slave! 


VIRGINIA. 


So  arch  a  smile  as  Ariadne  wore, 

To  greet  her  wine-god  on  the  desart  shore, — 

So  sly  a  sparkle  in  that  liquid  eye, 

As  Dian  cast  to  rapt  Endymion's  sigh. — 

Wild  as  the  wood-nymph  of  a  minstrel's  dream,  • 
Shy  as  the  Naiad  hy  her  crystal  stream, — 
Pure  as  the  priestess  in  Apollo's  grove — 
Yet  waitoi  as  Danae  half  won  by  Jove. — 

Fair  form — young  loveliness — and  noble  race- 
All  woman  gentleness — and  woman  grace — 
Heaven  hath  no  treasured  benefit  in  store, 
For  those  it  favors  most,  thy  love  before ! 

Unsunned  by  passion,  innocently  bland, 
Fresh  as  the  forests  of  thy  virgin  land, 
Tender,  and  delicate,  and  warm,  and  free — 
Oh  1  may  my  lot  be  cast  with  such  as  thee  I 


THE    DOOM    OF    THE    EYES. 


THE  youth  sorrowed  by  the  brooklet's  side,  and 
his  tears  mingled  with  its  waters. 

"  Why  weepest  thou,  my  son,"  said  the  hermit  of 
the  valley,  "  wherefore  is  thy  sorrow?" 

"  Alas !  alas !"  said  the  youth,  "  have  I  not  been 
wounded  by  the  eyes  of  the  maiden  which  have  looked 
upon  me?" 

"  Did  they  look  upon  thee  to  scorn  thee  ?"  inquired 
the  hermit  kindly.  "  Alas !  father,  but  they  did." 

"Then  will  I  revenge  thee  with  a  doom  upon 
them,  if  thou  wilt  but  say  to  me  the  color  which  they 
wore." 

But  the  youth  knew  not  the  color  of  the  eyes  which 
had  wounded  him,  for  his  own  had  been  dazzled. 

"  They  must  all  suffer  for  the  scorn,"  said  the 
hermit,  "  though  the  doom  shall  be  various  among 
them. — 

"  To  endless"  fires  the  black  shall  be  the  prey — to 
endless  tears  the  blue,  to  endless  motion  the  gray, 
*and  to  endless  sleeping  all  others,"  and  the  doom  was 
recorded. 


TO   THE   CONDOR. 


The  region  which  may  be  considered  as  the  habitual  abode  of  the 
Cvftdoi,  begins  at  a  height  equal  to  that  of  JEtna,  and  comprehends  strata 
of  air  at  an  elevation  of  from  9,600  to  18,000  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
sea.  Of  all  living  beings,  it  is  without  doubt  the  one  that  can  rise  at  will 
to  the  greatest  distance  from  the  earth's  surface. 

Humboldt— Tableaux  de  la  Nature. 


WONDROUS,  majestic  bird !  whose  mighty  wing 
Dwells  not  with  puny  warblers  of  the  spring ;  — 

Nor  on  earth's  silent  breast  — 
Powerful  to  soar  in  strength  and  pride  on  high, 
And  sweep  the  azure  bosom  of  the  sky, — 

Chooses  its  pkce  of  rest 

Proud  nursling  of  the  tempest,  where  repose 
Thy  pinions  at  the  daylight's  fading  close? 

In  what  far  clime  of  night 
Dost  thou  in  silence,  breathless  and  alone  — 
While  round  thee  swells  of  life  no  kindred  tone  — 

Suspend  thy  tireless  flight  ? 


300  TO   THE   CONDOR. 

The  mountain's  frozen  peak  is  lone  and  bare, 
No  foot  of  man  hath  ever  rested  there ; — 

Yet  'tis  thy  sport  to  soar 
'Far  o'er  its  frowning  summit  —  and  the  plain 
Would  seek  to  win  thy  downward  wing  in  vain, 

Or  the  green  sea-beat  shore. 

The  limits  of  thy  course  no  daring  eye 

Has  marked ;  — thy  glorious  path  of  light  on  high 

Is  trackless  and  unknown ; 

The  gorgeous  sun  thy  quenchless  gaze  may  share ; 
Sole  tenant  of  his  boundless  realm  of  air, 

Thou  art,  with  him,  alone. 

Imperial  wanderer !  the  storms  that  shake 

Earth's  towers,  and  bid  her  rooted  mountains  quake, 

Are  never  felt  by  thee !  — 
Beyond  the  bolt — beyond  the  lightning's  gleam, 
Basking  forever  in  the  unclouded  beam  — 

Thy  home  —  immensity ! 

And  thus  the  soul,  with  upward  flight  like  thine, 
May  track  the  realms  where  heaven's  own  glories 

And  scorn  the  tempest's  power ;  —  [shine, 

Yet  meaner  cares  oppress  its  drooping  wings ; 
Still  to  earth's  joys  the  sky-born  wanderer  clings  — 

Those  pageants  of  an  hour! 

E.  F.  E. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A    000023669     5 
|L23xg     |(«C^i 
^^ 


g    a 

i  s 


^       ^OF-CAllFOft 

O  OC 

!2    > 


3      I 


%      | 


I    I 


I0$«lfj> 
cp     ^  >-v & 


